For @messageforyou

[refusetofight]

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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[messageforyou]

"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.

[refusetofight]

“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.”

[messageforyou]

"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.

[refusetofight]

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.”

[messageforyou]

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.

[refusetofight]

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.