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 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.”

The king's suspicions indeed are as solid as the walls of Troy. They've been built and shored up ever since he set foot on the sands of battle, and the whole wouldn't have lasted this long if the king weren't keeping vulnerabilities closely guarded.

He huffs. He pulls at the hem of his cloak, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed.

"Fatherhood is easy, you know, when someone else has already done all the work." He pulls more at the cloak, but the memories around them churn. Half-remembered moments of bratty misbehavior from himself and from Molossus when they were the same age. Molossus flopping on his back and bellowing that he hates his father because the whole insisted on his son taking a bath. The whole loves his son, but Molossus is four and mulish and can cry and howl his hatred in the most painful way when he's doing the grueling work of fatherhood. "And it's even easier when you can come and go as you please, and you don't have to be there for the day to day."

Achilles can stop coming whenever he wants. Take a break, get caught up in some distraction in the Underworld, and then deign to show up weeks later to catch up. That's the privilege of adult children. That's the privilege of being so far beyond a child's reach that one can wholly control the contact.

The king looks at Achilles through the corner of his eye, hackles still up.

"But we still want a father. And I suppose you've come around to wanting a son." The king draws up his knees and hugs them, looking distantly at the swirl of memories and not at Achilles. "I'll give you one chance. Don't fuck it up."

These memories of the mundane day-to-day pierce his chest like a well-placed arrow. He’s missing this kind of closeness not once, but twice. What he wouldn’t give to experience even these tiny battles—the exact same he fought with his own father when he was a boy.

Lyra gave him a small taste at Anthesteria, her stubborn anger and strong convictions too unwieldy for a child of her size. Her moments of giggling joy are all the sweeter in contrast.

Those childhood emotions are so unfiltered and earnest, at least until they learn to hide them safely away. What better example of that than Pyrrhus peering over his fortress walls at anyone who approaches.

Achilles sits closer, testing that wall. “You need not suppose. I do want a son. You are my son.”

He leans his shoulder against the king’s, his voice soft and determined as he says, “This second chance won’t go to waste, you have my word, Pyrrhus.”

There's a memory. One that's connected in the king's mind without any intervention from Hermes' gift. Long, long ago, long enough that he doesn't even remember how old he was, and he doesn't know why he was so angry, but he was so upset that he dared yell at his mother that he hated her and she was the worst mother ever. He remembers vividly the vision of his mother taking a sharp breath, her eyes immediately turning red and wet. And he remembers the way his stomach dropped through the floor, the regret so deep that he couldn't speak, and all he could do was start to cry and throw his arms around his mother's leg while pleading that he didn't mean it, he was sorry, please don't cry Mummy.

He remembers the way she kissed his head. The relief of his mother forgiving him for being a child, of knowing she loved him even when he wasn't likable.

The king doesn't lean into Achilles' touch, but he doesn't flinch away this time, either. Instead, he just closes his eyes, sighing through his nose.

And then the pieces knit together again. The boy and warrior filtering back in, and suddenly it's the whole there, and the fluffy dog is in his lap again.

The whole leans against Achilles, and it's unclear if he's entirely aware of the conversation one third of him just had with his father.

"I don't suppose you know if the gods are willing to take requests for animals in Elysium?" he says dryly, scratching the dog's ears. "I think I see the charm in this one."

It’s a credit to Deidamia that she was such a good mother to the bastard son who ruined her chance at a proper marriage. She could easily have heaped all of her resentment for Achilles on the boy. Her love is what helped him survive.

But for Pyrrhus—as for many sons—a mother’s love wasn’t enough. A boy needs his father’s approval to feel whole.

In an echo of the memory with Deidamia, Achilles leans and kisses the top of Pyrrhus’ head. Maybe a strange gesture for a grown man to give his grown son, but he could care less; he lost his chance to do this when Pyrrhus was a boy.

“They’ve been known to indulge the occasional request.” Achilles ruffles the dog’s fluffy belly. “And I can put in a good word with a few gods to improve those odds.”

If Pyrrhus wants a happy cloud any time soon, Achilles might have to convince Prometheus to make one ahead of schedule. One impervious to Chthonic decay. “In the meantime, this little pup can live in your dreams.”

Pyrrhus' lips curve upward in a soft smile as his father kisses his head. There's distant memories of his mother doing the same, distant memories of doing the same himself to his own sons. Even Amphialus, so weak on his chest, he showered with kisses like he could kiss his son into health.

"I'd like that," he murmurs, smiling at how the pup delights in the combined attention of himself and his father. "I see why humans would make a little creature like this. It's like a toy that can love you as much as you love it."

And maybe that's just as valuable as a companion that hunts and guards. Humans need to love, and to be loved in turn. And the love between human and animal is so much less complicated than the love between humans.

"Besides, a fearsome warrior has no need for a fearsome dog," he says, affectionately tapping on the dog's paws, squishing the pads so the dog's toes stretch reflexively. "I can be fearsome enough for both of us."

“The little thing only needs a quarter of the meat, too,” Achilles laughs, pleased he could give his son this gift. Even if it’s just the memory of a particularly cheerful, silly dog that is yet to exist.

He rests his head against Pyrrhus’ and watches the dog’s mouth loll open in a panting smile. What will the world be like when these dogs come to exist? Better, surely.

“Thank you, lad, for finding me here—for granting me a second chance,” he says quietly, a hint of sighing relief in his voice. It’s good to have his son whole again like this. “Would that the Fates would unravel our threads so we might weave them anew. But … I remain grateful that our lives have woven back together after so many years. After death has separated us.”

Pyrrhus leans into his father's weight, the soft smile growing deeper in his face. He moves on from squishing the dog's paws to gently resting his hands on its belly.

"Thank you for coming back," he says, soft and sincere. His eyes flick to his father's face, then back down at the dog. There's a flicker of playfulness. "Or maybe I should save my thanking for Lord Hermes."

He smooths the dog's ears back, watching them spring back to place. "I do feel I owe him a debt of gratitude, though. If he doesn't want a temple, perhaps he'll appreciate what's coming for Epirus. Ophelia has many ideas--she honestly seems more suited to governing than I am."

There's warm respect there. A distant memory of Ophelia's eyes lighting up as she pointed out all the different trade routes that pass through Epirus. Excitedly explaining how necessary passage through it was for any merchant hoping to go in either direction, with no easy way to circumvent it. You can leverage this. If you built roads for them to use and set up guards to keep them safe, you could ask a toll to maintain the service, and you could use the money you raise from that to build a school for children. The cities in Persia that use their retired soldiers to educate the public's children about letters and numbers are leagues ahead of the cities that neglect education, and if you teach more children how to write and handle arithmetic, you soon will have a reliable class of people who can maintain more thorough records of the trade...

It was all a little over Pyrrhus' head, but he was struck by her confidence and easy mastery of a topic that seemed impossibly complicated. She rarely spoke out of turn when her father was around, but when her father was gone, she was like a flame held between two hands--no matter how much the world tried, her brilliance spilled out from between the cracks.

Pyrrhus' smile falters a moment. "Lord Hermes wouldn't object if it were a woman managing trade and commerce, would he?"

While Lyra might have given the push that Achilles needed to visit Pyrrhus, there would be no Lyra without Hermes. In that sense, Pyrrhus’ thanks are not misplaced. Still, there’s an uncomfortable twist in Achilles’ gut; his children should know each other. Pyrrhus should know how much his sister cares for him.

Not yet, Achilles warns himself. He remembers one of the dogs Patroclus rescued—it seemed perfectly friendly and happy nearly all of the time, but a sound, a scent, a man wearing the wrong hat would send it into a barking frenzy. It once sunk its teeth into Pat’s arm, it was so blinded by fear and anger. Pat had his work cut out for him trying to convince Achilles not to slit the dog’s throat.

What would he do if one of his children tried to harm the other? Achilles doesn’t know the answer to that question. He doesn’t want to find out.

“Would he object … ? Not in the least,” Achilles says with certainty. He’s pleasantly surprised that his son doesn’t feel threatened by Ophelia’s assertiveness and seeming expertise. “Anyone who is bold and clever enough to embark on such business has his approval. And certainly his blessing.

“I cannot speak for other mortals, however. Tread carefully at the beginning. Partner with her in these matters of commerce, but keep her and Epirus safe from men with small minds.”

Pyrrhus isn't threatened by Ophelia's brand of assertiveness. She's careful about appearances, careful about being reserved and cautious in mixed company. It was only when they were alone when she asked him why he didn't take more advantage of Epirus' position in the trade network, and only after he asked what she would do that she lit up and explained her plans. She's like him--she understands how important it is to perform the role of a man or woman in front of others, even if one doesn't always perfectly fit the role. It's only with trust and privacy that one can be more true to themselves.

"I don't imagine she'd be public about her role even if I allowed it," Pyrrhus says, remembering her father, piggish and self-indulgent and foolish. The memory seems to come with an internal reminder that he can't just kill the man. He has to keep reminding himself of that. "She's well acquainted with the egos of men. And I'm well acquainted with masking who runs what in my household."

More memories. Korinna pulling on her ears compulsively as she stares at a diagram she's drawn in chalk for how best to organize his agricultural land, mumbling about the placement of rivers and sunlight and labor and how it should affect what goes where. Agricultural planning goes over his head just as thoroughly as trade and mercantile policy, so he just tells Korinna to make a plan she thinks is best and tell the farmers he made it and orders them to follow it. Aspasia prowling the grounds, supervising the slaves like a hound watching a flock, managing the labor and cleaning and even the discipline without bothering him about it because he's already told her he trusts her to maintain order in the house. Lykos compiling the notes he makes during important conversations, keeping track of the needs and desires of different important families far more thoroughly than Pyrrhus ever could, and knowing how to pull up his notes and remind Pyrrhus of everything about a family before a new meeting.

Pyrrhus' cheeks color. His eyes lower in shame, his shoulders hunching.

"There are a lot of things I'm not good at," he confesses. "I've learned to delegate."

And he's embarrassed admitting it to his father. Embarrassed that he can't manage his own slaves, manage his own land, manage his own citizens, manage his own governance. Sometimes he wonders if he's really a king if he can't do any of those things. And the last person he wants to admit all this to is his father.

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