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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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.

Pyrrhus wasn’t taught how to be a warrior or a father and here is yet another thing he was denied: how to be a king. And yet, he’s arrived at the correct way about it. The dream around Achilles glows warm with pride.

He slings an arm around his son’s shoulders and gives him an encouraging half-hug. “Pyrrhus, you’ve done it exactly right. No single man can be expected to know all there is to keeping a thriving kingdom.”

While he never ruled over Phthia himself, Achilles shares memories of Peleus doing much the same things as Pyrrhus. Peleus consults long into the night with physicians and apothecaries about how to manage a plague sweeping through Thessaly. He listens to his steward report on the morale of the household staff and his plans for improved living quarters. Most all of the memories Achilles shares are simply his father listening.

“A king’s duty is to listen to those with more knowledge and make the best decisions for his land and people. There’s no shame at all in delegation.” He squeezes Pyrrhus’ bicep for emphasis. “Even my master does the same. Lord Hades trusts others in his court to act on his behalf.”

His brow raises in surprise, then creases with skepticism. He's not so sure he believes that part of being a good king is finding and accepting the knowledge of those who know more than himself. Perhaps either of his grandfathers could have given him more guidance, but both held him at arm's length, and he wasn't invited into the room to listen when either of them spoke to advisors.

Advisors? He supposes these people are indeed his advisors. Not scholars hand-picked from the citizenry, but former slaves and merchant daughters. But then again, he's never really gotten along with his social peers, and these people who are supposed to be beneath him seem to be much more reliable and worthy company anyway.

He leans into his father's affection, but he's still a little skeptical. "Lord Hades has advisors? Who would he trust to act on his behalf?" He tries to search his memory for stories of people who work with Lord Hades, but the god of the Underworld isn't commonly spoken of by the living, and Pyrrhus' mediocre education didn't give him much more information than the basics.

“Indeed he does. He trusts his family—Lady Persephone and the Prince—to help keep order in his realm. As a primordial goddess, Lady Nyx provides invaluable wisdom, and her children act as Hades’ agents, ushering souls to their eternities.”

Pyrrhus must look at his peers—or Menelaus, Agamemnon, Odysseus and all the other kings at Troy—and assume they manage the minutiae of their realms. That they always know the solutions to every problem of governance. If that assumed expertise wasn’t enough, Pyrrhus already fixates on his perceived inadequacies: his temper, his headaches, his poor memory, his reputation.

“Kings—even the divine sort—are not expected to know and do everything themselves. Had I inherited Phthia, I would find myself as baffled as you; I know plenty about war, but woefully little about matters of agriculture or trade. You’re most fortunate to have Ophelia and your clever servants to aid you. Their wisdom is your wisdom.”

Pyrrhus grunts in acknowledgement, his brow furrowing further in thought. There's a tug in the dream, cognitive dissonance tangling his reaction. He'd always fantasized about having his father's approval, but when faced with it, he realizes he'd never expected his actions in adulthood to really gain that approval. If anything would please the mythic Achilles, it'd be the sacking of Troy and the conquering of Epirus. And yet it seems that those are the least interesting things to his father, and he's most pleased by the things Pyrrhus most hides from others.

This feels like something he'll have to meditate over with his wax tablets. He has feelings about it. Mostly good feelings. But feelings that are hard to identify and put into words without quiet and a record in wax.

"You would find Korinna interesting. Everyone does. She seems slow in every respect on first impression, but she's brilliant. She was born a slave, but she can do complex arithmetic in her head that I can barely do on a tablet."

More memories. Korinna likes to pull her ears and walk in circles and mumble to herself when she's thinking, and despises making eye contact even when speaking directly to someone. Aspasia had been ready to discipline the behavior out of her, but the odd habits don't bother Pyrrhus so long as Korinna doesn't do it with company, and Aspasia never assigns her to attend to guests anyway. And her little compulsions seem to help her think, and Pyrrhus is hardly suited to deny someone an oddity that helps them think.

"Did you ever think about what it'd be like to be a king?" Pyrrhus asks softly, finding himself curious about what his father would have imagined for his own future, knowing how likely it was that he'd barely have one.

It pleases Achilles to know that his son can see past the woman’s oddities to understand her. To learn her strengths. Prometheus would be very interested in meeting Korinna, too, Achilles thinks. He can imagine the Titan marveling at another unique expression of his design.

Achilles drags a hand through the sand, gathers it up a handful and lets it slip through his fingers while he considers Pyrrhus’ question.

“When I was a boy, I thought my father’s life was boring. He spent so much of his time reading missives, hearing petitions, entertaining envoys … How could he stand it after his adventures on the Argo?” Listening to his father’s stories, Peleus the Argonaut seemed like a completely different man. And maybe he was, in the same way that Achilles was a different man at Troy.

“It wasn’t until the latter years of the war that I began to understand … and not until now—these years after my death—that I wish I’d had a taste of that life.” He turns his gaze on Pyrrhus and those stern edges of his face that still reflect the king. “My imagination wasn’t far from what you’ve shared—keeping a warm and lively house full of family, advisors, servants. Helping my land and people thrive through prosperity and hardship.”

Achilles exhales, his weight settling against his son. “I spent so much time destroying—how gratifying it must be to build and grow instead.”

It's strange to think that in many ways, Pyrrhus has more life experience than his own father. He wonders what he would have thought of the world if he only spent his adult life in the same war, sitting on the same beach.

"I didn't really think of what it'd be like to be a king. Which wasn't helpful when I actually became one." Pyrrhus huffs a soft chuckle at his own foolishness, so fixated on conquering a land that he hadn't even thought of what he'd do after. "I thought it was overwhelming. All these people came to me for answers, and I just wanted to tell them to solve their own problems and call me if there was a war."

He absently rubs the happy cloud dog's belly as he considers. "It was Andromache who pushed me into leading, actually. I suppose she must have witnessed Priam's work often enough to know what it looked like."

There's a memory attached. Andromache had been pregnant with Pergamus, then. She had yelled at him, asking what the hell he'd expected when he'd gone off on this fool's errand, what had he expected being a king meant. That he'd killed their last leader, and now to take responsibility for once in his life and make sure the people don't starve come winter. He still isn't sure why she did--if she knew he wouldn't strike her while she was pregnant and took the opportunity to put him down, if she wanted to goad him into hitting her so she might miscarry, if she was sincerely disgusted by his lack of foresight, if she was trying to help in her own way...

But she'd been right. And she was the only one who had any understanding of what the duties of a king even looked like, so it was her directing his early policy with a sharp tongue and explosive arguments. He was never quite sure that he was the one with all the power in their relationship. He had the strength to keep her in one place, but she always had the power to take his personhood and crush it between her palms, especially after his mother died. Sometimes she seemed to delight in hurting him in a way only she could, and sometimes she seemed to pity him, and sometimes she seemed too tired to do anything but gravitate towards the familiar.

"The work wasn't... gratifying. Not at first. It just seemed like endless chores, and no matter what I did it seemed someone was unhappy about it. But seeing things improve over time, and knowing that it was your decision-making that made it happen? Yes, I think I've grown to find it very gratifying."

Achilles watches the memory of Andromache with keen interest. For ten years she sat behind Troy’s formidable walls, watching her husband at war. She was only a name to Achilles: Hector’s widow, his son’s prize. Pyrrhus’ memories have made her real. Her anger is palpable, her pain is hewn into her face—a face older and wiser than the Pyrrhus in the memory.

How, after losing her home and her child, she had the energy to berate Pyrrhus, he has no idea. No, that’s not quite right. Rage can keep a spirit fighting for years on end …

But he supposes he should be grateful that she educated him after a fashion—and that his son didn’t kill the woman for her persistent audacity.

“It pleases me to hear that you enjoy it,” Achilles says earnestly. “Some men have great difficulty finding purpose outside of battle. Not to mention contentment …

“Would you be happy to continue like this? Or would you prefer war and conquest?” He doesn’t want the question to sound like a trick, an excuse to judge, so he admits: “Even had I left Troy and returned home, I know I would still hunger for war. Like a beast that needs to be over-glutted before he learns that his feast makes him ill.”

There's a lot of feelings embedded in the image of Andromache. She'd been his since he was ten, she'd witnessed his worst struggles, his worst losses, bore his children. There's love there for her, in some fashion, but there's also resentment and anger and flinching shame. There are memories that refuse to be shown, refuse to present themselves, but still whisper in the crevices of Pyrrhus' mind. A memory of collapsing to sob in Andromache's lap after his mother died, and her fingers ran through his hair, and really he saw her more as a mother than an eventual lover--a memory of slapping her hard enough that her lip split, and he cringed, because he didn't mean to make her bleed, but honestly he was lucky he hadn't broken her cheek--a memory of her screaming at him, telling him that no one loved him because he was a monster, his own father didn't love him and his mother would hate him if she truly knew what he was, and Pyrrhus grabbing her by the throat and throwing her at a wall--a memory of being crippled by a headache, the world swimming, and she smashed a pot over his head, she didn't even try to leave, she just wanted to hurt him when he was vulnerable, and she almost seemed disappointed when he didn't kill her and spent the night tending the injuries she gave him and laying compresses on his head--a memory of her blank face as she sat in bed in a puddle of her own blood and afterbirth, face almost impassive as he tried to push breath into Amphialus' lungs, she'd lost too many children and she'd stopped allowing herself to care for the ones she had--the way she looked at him when he'd told her that she was free to go, that he'd give her what she needed and she could start a new life, like he was an insect and his offer of freedom meant nothing--

Pyrrhus still has never understood how Andromache feels about him, despite having her in his life since childhood. She must hate him, but he's not sure if it's only hate, and now he probably never will be. And maybe some small part of him, a part that's still a child in a battlefield, wishes that things could have been different.

But those thoughts and memories are muffled, blanketed under a thick layer of knots and noise that Pyrrhus doesn't know how to cut through and examine beneath.

"I do miss war and battle. There's nothing I feel so confident in," Pyrrhus says without a hint of shame. He doesn't see his propensity for war as something he should be ashamed of. It's a profession. A skill he was born with a natural talent for. "But conquest means either dying or winning the spoils, and then you have to manage the spoils. I can barely manage the spoils I've already won."

He doesn't want another concubine, certainly. None would be as valuable to him as Andromache, and he wouldn't want to invite the same misery she brought into his life. He doesn't want more lands to manage, nor more people to tend to, nor more honors to live up to. He's had enough of that.

Achilles has always taken love for granted: Peleus’ adoration, Thetis’ protectiveness, and Patroclus’ quiet loyalty. They wove together as sturdy threads around his life. They sacrificed so much for him and received so little in return.

By contrast, Pyrrhus’ experience with love is brittle and sharp. Wounding. Yet he’s not so scarred and thickly calloused that he doesn’t still reach for it, doesn’t still give it in his own way. To Ophelia, Molossus, the servants of his house … his long-absent father.

Achilles hums at Pyrrhus’ answer. “Wise.”

He looks out toward the shimmering dream horizon and nods in approval. “Cultivate what you have. Leave Molossus and your people a prosperous kingdom. That is a worthy goal to my eyes. One I’m positive you’ll achieve—if you haven’t already.”

Pyrrhus rests his head against his father's, watching the horizon, the comfort of the sea so close to them. "Not sure I have yet. But I think Ophelia's ideas will go a long way."

Trade and commerce do seem to be an element of a thriving, prosperous state. An element that Pyrrhus doesn't understand and doesn't think he'd be able to meaningfully learn even if he tried, but Ophelia knows how it works, and Ophelia is brimming with ideas for how best to cultivate it.

"Tell Mom that I found a lovely woman, won't you? She was so worried about no one taking care of me after she was gone." He remembers her fretting to her dying breath. As her health declined, she was ever more insistent to her father that Menelaus must deliver Hermione to Skyros for a proper wedding, but Pyrrhus was far too young for marriage despite his honors in battle and he knows his mother died afraid that Pyrrhus would be lost and alone. And he was, really, but he doesn't want her to know that. "And the woman comes with the bonus of me not having to deal with the House of Atreus again. Which is a good thing because I can't guarantee I wouldn't knock out Menelaus' teeth."

“I will, lad. The knowledge may prove a better gift than the bracelet.” Delivering the shades of her grandsons was a mixed blessing; besides the grief of their early death, Achilles could tell she was troubled for her son. He smiles and turns his head against Pyrrhus’. “Perhaps Molossus will have another sibling before long.”

The mention of Menelaus draws his face into a grimace. If he met the man again, he’d be equally moved to violence.

“It pleases me that my blood is no longer entangled with that cursed house.” Achilles finds his jaw clenching in a passing swell of anger. He and his love are dead. His son is broken. “They took far too much from us.”

He grips Pyrrhus’ arm, firm and encouraging. “Show them the son of Achilles can live well without their favor.”

Pyrrhus nods his head against his father's, closing his eyes briefly. "I will, Dad. Their house is nothing but trouble anyway. I'm glad I won't be related to the sorts of people who murder their own family so frequently."

He's hardly the sort of man who cringes in the face of violence, but his violence has always been about efficiency. Meeting a goal using the best tool available, facing off against people on opposing ends of a conflict. The murders that haunt the House of Atreus strike him as different, as profoundly distasteful, because it's all rooted in betrayal of what Pyrrhus believes to be natural duties to one's family. From Tantalus murdering his son, to Atreus and Thyestes assassinating their brother, to Atreus' murder and cannibalism of his nephews, to Thyestes' rape of his own daughter, to Agememnon's murder of Iphigenia, to the murder of Agamemnon by his own wife and then Clytemnestra's murder by her own son...

Pyrrhus makes a face. It'd likely offend Agamemnon, but Pyrrhus is honestly far more disgusted by the activities of the family of Atreus than he is by anything he's personally done.

But he doesn't have to worry about that now. He can let go of Hermione and thereby his last tie to that family with his father's blessing.

"I'd be worried if I had another son," he confesses softly. "If I'm to die soon, I don't want to leave another boy without knowing his father. But a little girl, maybe. Molossus could tend to her like a male guardian must when she's old enough, and she'd have a mother."

He imagines girl children needing their father only for practical things, like brokering marriages and deterring the violence of other men. Practical things that Molossus can give, once he's old enough. But he knows that boy children need their fathers to learn what men are supposed to be, and without their fathers they're forced on a painful journey of teaching themselves.

Achilles knows his line suffers from its own curse—Apollo made that obvious in his prophecy of abandonment and violence. No use further tangling with House Atreus’ own brutal misery.

“Mmmm. Yes, a girl would be best.” Sons risk quarrels that sow rifts in families—especially with Molossus born of a concubine and any future boy born of Pyrrhus’ chosen queen. The latter could have a stronger claim to legitimacy.

Girls can be trouble, too, he wants to caution, but immediately thinks better of it. There’s nothing to suggest he has experience with daughters. Instead, he smiles and thinks of his own hopes for Lyra: “I’ve no doubt Ophelia would raise a daughter well. Not only to weave and dance and keep a house, but to give her husband guidance and strength, as she has for you.”

Either way, Achilles hopes Pyrrhus can enjoy one more healthy birth with the woman he so clearly adores. He deserves that much before the Fates cut his thread.

"A girl with Ophelia's eyes. I'd quite like that." Pyrrhus closes his eyes and smiles at the thought. Distantly, he imagines a girl like that, walking hand in hand with Ophelia on the beach. The girl's face is indistinct, but the colors making her suggest warmth and care. Pyrrhus has always thought most on having sons, as he expects most Greeks to, but the idea of leaving behind a girl that resembles Ophelia leaves him warmer.

But time is marching on. He can't afford to spend all his time fantasizing about future children.

"Remind me of everything I need to remember when I wake up," Pyrrhus says, voice almost hushed as he tries to root through his own head. "Three bracelets for the temple of Hermes. And her son. I need to find that woman's son, the wife of the stonemason. Remind me of her name?"

He wants to grab onto the information as hard as he can. He's afraid of forgetting too much when he wakes up.

“I hope the Fates see fit to give you a sweet girl.” A daughter would be a fine gift, Achilles thinks—she could give Ophelia some comfort after Pyrrhus’ impending loss.

Dreams are difficult enough to remember—it must be all the worse for Pyrrhus and his fallible memory. He sees the anxiety in his son’s eyes and calmly takes his hand.

“Ah, yes. Pherenike of Corinth, wife of Kleon,” Achilles repeats patiently. “If the lad looks anything like his mother, he’ll have freckles and light-brown hair.”

He grips Pyrrhus’ hand tighter and recites his own promises: “And for my part, I will tell your mother about lovely Ophelia. The boys will have a reminder that you love them, and Pergamus that you regret yelling at him. Perhaps a story of Arachne for the little spider.”

"Pherenike of Corinth. Wife of Kleon, the stonemason. I have to find her son to repay the care she gave Amphialus." He repeats it under his breath a few times, his fingers twitching as if to scratch the words in air. "And I'll make three bracelets. Amphialus and Pergamus are safe. They're with their grandparents now. Mom will know I'm okay."

Pyrrhus holds tight to his father's hand, meeting the pressure with a squeeze of his own, but his form is beginning to lose form. He's getting close to wakefulness, the colors fading from the dream around them.

"Pherenike of Corinth. Wife of Kleon, the stonemason. I have to find her son. And I need to make three new bracelets."

There's distant sounds that strike as far more real than anything in the dream. The sounds of a palace waking up. Aspasia's soft footsteps outside his room, already checking to make sure everyone and everything are in their place.

Enough time has passed that for all its whims, the dream feels real and solid. For a moment, Achilles thinks the stirring sounds might come from what remains of remembered Skyros. But the sounds are too sharp and certain, like forms cutting through a thick fog.

The happy cloud startles as Pyrrhus’ begins to evaporate beneath it. It leaps onto Achilles’ solid lap and hunkers down, tail wagging in agitated surprise. Achilles doesn’t notice; he’s still clinging to the last threads of his son’s dreaming shape.

“Pyrrhus,” Achilles says hurriedly. “If nothing else, remember that I love you. I’m proud of you, lad.”

Pyrrhus opens his eyes, already fading away from the dream, pulled closer and closer to the land of the living. And in the last moments, he smiles.

He presses a quick kiss to his father's hand. "I love you too, Dad. Come back soon."

And then he's gone. In his absence, there's a moment where the world of the living is near. The smell of smoke as the kitchen roars to life. The quiet shuffle of Aspasia walking into her master's room, laying out his clothes and fresh wax tablets. There's distant giggling, the sound of Molossus waking up. He sneaked a frog into his room and doesn't know that his father only pretends not to notice.

And then those wisps are gone too. Pyrrhus is awake, and far from dreams once more.

The sea breeze scatters the last smoky tendrils of Pyrrhus’ dream self and Achilles is left alone in the empty dream of Skyros with the familiar, numb longing of homesickness. What he wouldn’t give to visit his son’s home, meet the people who have become so important to him.

The happy cloud’s tongue lapping at his fingers pulls Achilles away from his thoughts. He sighs and gives the dog a grudging smile.

“And you.” The dog’s ears perk and its head cocks when it’s addressed. It ceases its smiling panting to look comically serious for a moment. “You stay here and keep him company while he sleeps, won’t you?”

The dog blinks, considering, then sneezes and resumes excited panting before scampering up into the sketch of Lycomedes’ palace. It assumes a place on the stone steps, watchful and waiting.

“Good pup,” Achilles says with a grateful nod before stepping into the inky, black void that precedes his own wakefulness.

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