refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Thetis wings slow circles above the shore in the shape of a humble gull. Of all the many shapes she could take, this is the most unremarkable to mortals. They’re a common nuisance, curious and daring.

This isn’t the first time Thetis has watched her unexpected granddaughter play on the shore. She’s been a seal, watching from the safety of the surf, a keen-eyed osprey roosting at the top of a tree. In animal shape, her emotions are no less turbulent.

The girl’s hair shines like flax in the sun as she delights in the waves and warm sand. Thetis might as well be watching a memory: those peaceful, lazy days with her son, bookended by the pain of his conception and the grief of his death.

Every time she visits, she promises herself that this will be the last. The same as she did with Neoptolemus. But she finds herself gripped by guilt. She could have saved her grandson from the vile mortals who would use him like they used Achilles. She could have hidden him away again, perhaps this time in her father’s realm. But what would be the use? They would still find him. Neoptolemus is still mortal. He would still die.

What do the Fates have planned for this child? Lord Hermes’ divinity shines bright within her. She’ll be coveted by mortals, yes, but not as a weapon—as a beautiful lover and mother to powerful sons. Thetis knows the special agony of that life.

But for now, Lyra is a happy child, delighting in a beautiful day. Thetis pulls her wings in to stoop lower until she can hear the girl’s laughter on the breeze. Lower still and she can see her smile. Against her better judgement, the aching protest of her old wounds, she finally lights on the sand a few yards away.

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Swiss Army knife. Right. That’s the idea that only half-formed in the eternal afterimage of Apollo’s burning insight. The madness from that really has a long tail; like Pat is doomed to half-remember a million different things for eternity.

“A woman gave it to me. We found her in another place … One I can’t begin to describe.” Patroclus steps closer to the musician and offers the trinket for her inspection. The lipstick is still a bright red on his cheek, lending some credence to his story. “She said it might be useful.”

Meanwhile, Achilles gives a soft, disappointed ah when the humans admit to no knowledge of his son. Well. Kelly’s lead is still a good one, and they know the way to the river.

His expression turns bitter as he shifts his attention to the typist. “I didn’t— I don’t call him by that name. It was suggested by my former tutor, and it took hold.”

The musician looks at Patroclus' chest and waist, where there's the unmistakable glimmer of rubbed off body glitter. She's no history buff, but she's pretty sure they didn't have body glitter in Rome. She gives an amused smile. "Wherever you were seems like a party." She looks at his cheek, where the unmistakable kiss mark sits. "I can tell that lady liked you a lot."

She takes the knife from his hand, turning it to show the little divots on the side where one can pinch each attachment. "It's a multi-tool. You can unfold a bunch of things from it and each has its own use." She pulls each attachment out one by one. "Here's a knife, a wood saw, pliers, a metal file, scissors... oh hey, a magnifying glass, I bet they haven't invented that yet where you came from."

As she unfolds the magnifying glass, engraved around the edge are the words, To Kelly with love, from Dad. The musician ignores it as she levels the magnifying glass to look at the edge of her desk, highlighting all the little details of the woodgrain. "See? It makes little things look bigger."

Hermes is tempted to hover over this fascinating demonstration, but Achilles' change in mood pings him. He hovers closer, not reaching out or intervening yet, but keeping a careful eye. He doesn't want his lover to deal with more upset on top of everything.

The typist, for his part, arches a single bushy brow. "Seems you don't like the name. Didn't know there was ever a time when a tutor's chosen name held more authority than a father's."

Patroclus follows the musician’s eyes and grunts in surprise and embarrassment when he sees the sparkly dust Kelly left behind. He tries to brush it off, but he gets the sinking feeling that he’ll be finding bits of this on his clothes for weeks.

He quickly gives up on that and focuses on the musician’s demonstration, in awe of how perfect and delicate each of the tools is and how they fit together so smoothly. The impossibly tiny letters etched into the metal are familiar shapes, but he can’t understand the words they form. Maybe some kind of blessing?

He holds a glittery index finger under the magnifying glass, enchanted by its effect. “What about the curly one? What use is it?”

Like Hermes, Pat still keeps one eye on Achilles. The typist is clearly prodding some sore spots.

“My son was a newborn babe when I went off to war.” He shakes his head grimly. “I had little say in what men chose to call the lad when he took up arms after my death.”

Achilles twists the shell bracelet on his wrist. “Neoptolemus. The name has only brought him more suffering.”

The musician smiles at his clear awe and interest. This is one thing she does enjoy about being trapped at a crossroads like this. It's nice to show people from other times cool things from her own.

"The curly one is a corkscrew. Dunno how you deal with wine where you come from, but in my time, we keep it in these glass bottles with a narrow neck and a cork plugging them up, so you need something curly to drive into the cork and pull it out." The musician tugs Patroclus' hand gently, encouraging him to touch the blunt tip of the screw. "But they're good for untying knots. And a lot of these knives will have extra things that you can attach, so if something pops out while you're playing with it that isn't connected to anything, it's supposed to to be twisted onto your corkscrew."

She offers the Swiss Army knife back to Patroclus. "There's a bunch of things in there that's probably only intended to be used with stuff from my time, but I'm sure everything could be useful for you if you're creative. Just make sure to dry it off if it's wet and clean it up if it's dirty." The musician winks playfully. "If you see Kelly again, tell her she's right about it being useful."

She assumes, of course, that Patroclus knows the name of the woman who gave it to him already. It seems like a very meaningful gift to give before even exchanging names.

The typist scoffs. "So you left the boy when he was newborn, and by the time you died, he was old enough to go to war himself?" He twists as best as he can to face Achilles, face flinty. "What were you doing all that time? Having tea with the queen?"

"Hey, don't be an ass, Walter," the musician says, looking away from Patroclus to frown instead at the typist. "It's none of your business."

"Travel was much more difficult for those of us alive before machines could carry us," Andreas says, putting his brush aside to frown at Walter as well, or as best he can without twisting his body too much. "We couldn't just go back and forth if we were far apart. A man away at war could be gone for years before returning."

"Seems a stronger argument for staying with your family, then," Walter says, narrowing his eyes at Achilles. "Why are you here, if you're dead and gone to him already?"

"Walter, seriously?" the musician purses her lips before grimacing at Achilles and Patroclus. "Just ignore him. The river's down my end of the crossroads."

Kelly. The woman’s memory had whispers of that name, but it’s the first time Pat has heard it said aloud. He wonders how the musician knew this, but attributes it to her station at the crossroads. The three seem like some sort of oracles.

Pat nods his thanks and takes the knife back. He rubs his thumb over the bright red surface before placing it in his pocket with the iron ingot. Another tool in his arsenal.

But the old man with the annoying machine seems keen on pushing his lover’s buttons and it’s about time to intervene. As Achilles opens his mouth to respond, Pat grasps his hand and tugs him towards the musician’s road. “You don’t owe him any answers, Achilles. Let’s keep moving.”

Hermes is more than happy to usher Achilles onward with Patroclus, since nothing can be gained from having a fight with a half-man, half-tree. Walter grunts, looking back at his typewriter and pounding a few keys.

"I saw your son."

The musician and Andreas both pause, turning as best they can to frown at Walter. But as may be evident from how they twist, it's clear how he could see something that the other two don't.

The typist pushes the platen back in place over the typewriter, pulling his freshly typed page from it and laying it delicately on the pile besides him. "He was with Ember's gang."

Andreas and the musician react visibly to the name. Both cringe, the musician grimacing and Andreas making the sign of the cross over his body. Lugh, on the other hand, doesn't react at all, still smiling very slightly.

"If he's like the rest of them, the world is better off without him. And he's better off without the world." The typist takes a blank page and rolls it into the typewriter. "Go home."

“The world is not better off. His family needs him, and he needs his family.” Achilles breaks from Pat’s hold and returns to plant his hands on either side of the writer’s desk. He’s like an eagle being mobbed by a crow, proud and sharp but obviously ruffled.

Patroclus sighs and keeps close to Achilles, still ready to keep him from doing anything he’ll regret.

“What do you mean he’s with a gang? We were told he was among the Morrígan’s hunting party. Which is the truth?” Patroclus asks the writer in a more measured, if still mildly irritated tone. He’s not sure who is more credible: Kelly or this other trapped human. “How long ago did you see him? Where was he headed?”

Walter leans back in his seat, somehow managing to look down his nose at Achilles despite the hero towering above him.

"I'm sure you're very intimidating to your peers at home, but in my time, you're just petulant."

"Well, why don't you talk to us instead, then?" Hermes exudes easy charm as he crouches by the desk. He smiles, fluffing up his feathers. As he does so, he rests a hand on Achilles', trying to ground his lover before he reacts. "What was this about a gang? We'll be out of your hair in due course, just want a few directions first."

"Ember's band is part of the queen's hunting retinue," Andreas says softly. He's twisted uncomfortably to look at them, but he's doing his best. "The hunt is large enough that there are many bands within it. The queen will summon and dismiss her retinue at will, and they'll break into their own parties. Ember is the leader of one of them."

"They're the most dangerous," the musician says. When previously she was bubbly, now she's dead serious. "Not bullies, exactly. Or the most combative. But the most dangerous."

"The time I saw him is irrelevant." The typist leans forward to start working again. "Time doesn't pass in this place as it does elsewhere. He may not have even experienced this road yet. Oh perhaps it feels like he was here centuries ago. Regardless, no one could tell you exactly where he is in a given moment, least of all himself."

Petulant. Achilles inhales sharply, almost bull-like. The nerve of this stranger. “And you sit here and cast judgment upon—”

“Achilles,” Pat whispers harshly. “Be calm.”

“Why?” Achilles still glares cold daggers at the typist. “He has nothing of value to add. The other two are far more gracious and helpful.” A shame the scribe and the musician are trapped here with such a bitter old man.

“What does Ember’s band do when not serving the Morrígan?” Pat asks quickly, trying to steer them back on track, away from Achilles’ rage. “And why are they interested in recruiting Neoptolemus? Because he’s a strong warrior?”

Hermes, rather than saying anything, just squeezes Achilles' hand. A little tighter than normal. Don't rise to the bait.

The typist lets out a bitter laugh. "A strong warrior? No one needs those anymore."

"They have guns." The musician frowns, nibbling her lip as she tries to think of how to explain it. "They're these metal weapons that kill people from a distance. A lot of them are small enough to hide in a pocket, and most don't really need any effort to use."

"Horrible things." Andreas draws himself up, frowning. Of all the topics of conversation, this one clearly gets under his skin the most. "They use tiny explosions to propel lead faster than the eye can see. They kill people so fast they don't have a chance to hear the sound of the explosion before they're mortally wounded."

"Your kind, warriors born into warrior classes with spears in your hands and groomed for battle and conquest from birth..." Walter makes a dismissive gesture towards Achilles. "Obsolete. A toddler can kill a grown man with a gun carelessly left in their reach. And many have, to terrible effect. No, no, Ember didn't take your son in because he can hit things hard."

"She probably took him in because she likes him." The musician shrugs helplessly. "And she probably likes him because they have something in common. Don't really want to think of what, though. I don't know anything about her besides she's terrifying."

Guns. Those were a primary feature of Apollo’s maddening visions. Patroclus remembers the field of Troy twisting itself into prophecies of new horror: the Greeks and Trojans became filthy men huddled in trenches exchanging hot slugs of lead, choking on gas and buried by explosions. The walls of Troy became the bomb-blasted ruins of cities. With a gun in hand, every man, woman, or child became a god of death and destruction. No divine blood needed.

“Mortal weapons are no threat to shades and gods,” Thetis says with a confidence that matches her son’s.

“But Neoptolemus is still a mortal. He can still die to these guns,” Achilles reminds her.

“Ember has no claim to him. Only the Morrígan does. We should keep to the plan and negotiate with the goddess herself,” Patroclus says, glancing at Hermes for confirmation. His eyes have the distinct look of a man haunted by prophecy.

When Thetis speaks, Walter scoffs a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he starts typing once more. Andreas and the musician cringe and grimace, glancing at each other. But none say anything outright.

"Patroclus is right. The Morrígan is the only one whose word matters." Hermes straightens, keeping a grip on Achilles' hand and tugging him towards the musician's road. Without thinking, he lightly touches Patroclus' back, a guiding hand to gently pull him out of the familiar haunting and towards the path. "We should get moving. Think of what you want to ask the river."

Lugh bows his head towards the artists, smiling. "Thank you for your guidance, wayfinders. We'll away now."

"Good luck finding your son," the musician says, giving a weak wave.

"Godspeed," Andreas wishes them, still looking troubled.

Patroclus didn’t expect to encounter this particular challenge during their journey. In the Underworld, there’s little to remind him of the maddening visions that preceded his death. Here people talk about things, ideas—both benign and terrible—that didn’t exist in Greece. Or rather, not yet.

He flinches instinctively at Hermes’ touch, but the cold dread in his gut disappears, replaced by fresh resolve to continue their journey. His feet feel lighter as they move along the musician’s road.

As he follows Hermes, Achilles’ simmering fury pauses long enough to give the musician and Andreas his own distracted thanks.

Once they’ve left the crossroads behind and they’ve all fallen in step, Achilles turns to Lugh. “What do you know about this ‘Ember’? And the ‘guns’ she wields?”

Hermes notices the kiss mark on Patroclus' cheek. He briefly considers just letting it sit there, but that seems petty, and he's trying not to be petty. Hermes shakes a cloth handkerchief out of nothing, offering it to Patroclus as they walk.

"It seems that the woman at the party was wearing something on her lips," he says by way of explanation, gesturing to his own cheek with a small smile. Despite his own feelings about Pat, he thinks that the man did very well by the poor woman, and he thinks it's sweet how grateful she was.

Lugh, meanwhile, rubs his chin at Achilles' question, humming softly. "I don't spend much time with the mortals here, so I wouldn't say I know much about her. But I understand that she died an old woman in a profession men usually die young, and that makes her formidable."

He smiles at Achilles, but it's an opaque one, similar to Hermes' when he's being professional. "As for guns... humans come up with all sorts of ways to more efficiently kill each other, given enough time. Guns aren't the most devastating weapons humans can make, but they suit the purpose of killing a person across the room in a blink perfectly well. Or across a field, if you have the right kind. They're not invulnerable, but they might as well be if you fight them with a spear. So I don't recommend picking fights with people who have them."

In the air, there's a scent that cuts through the verdant greenery of the land. It's crisp and cold, the smell of winter and mountains. Achilles might recognize it from Valhalla.

Patroclus’ brow furrows in surprise, but he takes the handkerchief and the hint. A little scrubbing and he examines the vivid red smear left on the pristine white cloth. He might have mistaken it for blood if Hermes hadn’t explained it.

Pat gives Hermes a quiet thank you and awkwardly offers the soiled kerchief back. Ironically, Hermes has been more attentive than Achilles on this quest.

But it makes sense. It’s a familiar situation. Achilles is once again embroiled in his own emotions and driven by stubborn purpose.

“Such a weapon must remove all skill and honor from battle,” Achilles huffs. Bows were already toeing the line of cowardice, but at least a man needed to draw and aim a bow with strength and mastery. “If Ember relies on such a thing, I doubt she can be so formidable …”

He trails off as the air shifts and his skin prickles with memories of danger. How far have they traveled? Was Valhalla already another stop on the honey road?

Hermes takes the kerchief back with a small amused smile, shaking it into nothingness again. But the smile drops, wings pinning against his head when the crisp mountain air cuts through the forest.

He catches himself, taking a deep breath and putting an opaque smile on again before looking to Lugh. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."

Lugh has his own mildly amused smile as he looks to Hermes. "You didn't expect we'd just leave the body in a corner somewhere just because Odin took the head, did you?"

And then the trees part, revealing the mouth of the river of knowledge. The hulking headless body of a god is held in place by an old tree growing around it, the stump of its neck bowed forward. From the wound pours clear water, pooling at the feet of the body and roots of the tree, then forming a river that flows through the forest. The water smells of crisp mountain air, smells of a pantheon of gods far, far away from this place.

"Allow me to introduce you to Mimir, the god of knowledge in the far north." Lugh gestures to the body with a little bow. "Or most of him, at least. If his head were here, he could give you counsel on the best kinds of questions to ask, but I'm afraid we must work with what we have."

It takes both Achilles and Patroclus a moment to process what they’re seeing. Both of the mortals wince. Thetis looks unperturbed; she’s used to divine brutality and the remains thereof. The bodies of gods persist in all manner of strange states. It’s less of a corpse than a feature of the land.

“I have met Lord Mimir in Odin’s court,” Achilles says with a touch of grim reverence. And Patroclus, of course, heard the story in full and was vindicated to learn that the northern gods are every bit as brutish as their own.

“We can ask anything?” Pat approaches the water’s edge, surprised by its clear freshness given the gruesome source. “We will need to know about the Morrígan, and how best to negotiate. What can we offer of value?”

Hermes pins his wings. He gives a small nod of respect towards the body, then clasps his hands behind his back to smile at Lugh as he explains.

"You can ask anything at all. I don't recommend you do, though." Lugh crouches at the edge of the river, using his spear to gently stir up the water. The ripples from his spear bend the space oddly. Like the water no longer shows the river bed, but the trail of stars across the night sky in stunning detail. But the effect is gone as the water returns to its own undisturbed current. "Mimir's knowledge is great, and he's always been a generous sort to mortals because they're incapable of asking for any significant amount of his wisdom. You won't have to give him anything, so long as you don't ask a question beyond your ability. But if you ask too large or broad a question, it will give you that information even if it destroys your mind, and it will seize whatever price it sees fit."

Lugh looks at Patroclus and Achilles. For once, he's not smiling. His face is dead serious. "Listen well: I recommend you form your question based on who, what, where, how, or why. Then make sure to think of it narrowly, like 'how can we best negotiate the freedom of Neoptolemus from the Morrígan', not 'how can one best negotiate with the Morrígan.' If Mimir's head were here, he would coach you on how best to ask for the knowledge you seek, but all we have is his power and the remains of a generous spirit. And it will be generous to your doom if you're not careful."

Lugh looks to Thetis and Hermes. "And I don't advise either of you try, either. The river can get... temperamental when gods try to take knowledge. I'm not sure if it's part of Mimir's influence or that we grab at more information than mortals do."

He looks back to the mortals, still not smiling. “When you know your question, drink from the river and ask.”

Achilles remembers what Prometheus warned—that the Morrígan won’t test his strengths. Death has changed him, it’s true, but in a way that still requires vigilance. His pride remains tender and easily aggravated. His first instinct is always to dig in his heels.

At his core, he’s still the same man and it troubles him.

He joins Pat and Lugh at the water’s edge and kneels. It’s a difficult question to ask, but it’s the correct one if he wants to be adequately prepared for this negotiation.

Achilles stirs the cool surface with his fingertips, then submerges his cupped palms and brings the water to his lips to drink. “Please … Blood of Lord Mimir, grant me knowledge of myself: which of my weaknesses must be challenged?”

The water tastes like fresh snow melt on the highest mountain peak. The feeble stream of power the head of Mimir shared when giving Achilles guidance is now a roaring, frothing waterfall.

There are no words. This guidance isn't conscious like it was before. There's a glimpse of insight, insight into the Morrígan herself, just a chip of perspective from an entire mountain, and yet it still rushes through the knowledge with enough power to cause a headache.

She knows Achilles. She knows humans. She likes watching things grow, and humans do it so quickly and visibly. What keeps Achilles from growing? To her, it's easy to see.

Pride.

Stubbornness.

Impatience.

Shame.

Any time she's approached for a favor, it is an opportunity to cut the bonds that constrain growth, to put upon a person the pressure required to change. She will see Achilles grow, or she will see him gone from her presence without his son.

The current of knowledge eases. Hermes crouches by Achilles, resting a hand on his back, wings pinned tight to his skull. "Brain still intact, darling?"

He'd like to fuss more, but he's constantly conscious of the company they're in and the risk of making it clear just how much he cares for Achilles.

As the water’s chill disperses into his chest, the revelations rush in. They tumble over one another like a frothing cataract before they finally pool and cohere into something useful—as clear and certain as if they were his own observations.

“No need for worry, magpie.” A headache is the least of his problems. Mimir’s answer isn’t comforting. “The Morrígan will wish to see me grow. To push myself beyond my shortcomings.”

It sounds benign to say it aloud, but for Achilles, growth is hard-won and has always meant unimaginable pain. Patroclus knows this well, and strokes his hair soothingly.

“You will overcome any challenge she sets,” Thetis says with prim certainty. Her son isn’t perfect, but he’s not far off.

Hermes furrows his brow in concern. He's not quite as confident as Thetis--Achilles has been able to triumph in many impossible situations, but Hermes struggles to think of a time that Achilles triumphed against himself. But he's done harder things for those he loves.

"It's in her nature to do that sort of thing," Lugh says, back to his slightly amused smile. "It's part of her work with her husband, the Dagda. The humans conceptualize her as a goddess of death and war, but it's more that she facilitates change. She destroys the old and dying, and then the Dagda replaces it with the new and thriving. One can't happen without the other."

Lugh stands straight, leaning on his spear. "Are you ready to go to her?"

Achilles rises and nods to Lugh with stoic determination. Either he doesn’t see Hermes’ concern, or he chooses to ignore it.

Patroclus, however, remains crouched, staring into the water and trying to formulate a worthy question. It would be a waste not to ask—if not to improve their negotiations with the Morrígan, then to help them in other matters. As shades, insight may be one of the most valuable gifts available to them.

He dips a hand into the water and the river whisks away fragments of Kelly’s glitter. Pat exhales and whispers his question: “Blood of Mimir, what does Neoptolemus need from his father?” And cups the water to his mouth to drink.

The rush of snow melt knowledge isn't quite as torrential--Neoptolemus is human, and his perspective something another human is capable of holding--but it comes with pain. Deep, tearing pain, like one's heart is ripped out, and ripped out over and over and over, a painful void yearning to be filled but never can be.

At first, the answer is just a scream. A long, agonized scream of knotted rage and grief and loneliness. A child leaning his face against the tombstone of his father, ignoring the name he doesn't recognize and convincing himself that his father loved him and would be proud. The reaching for fatherly attention from the men who most might have given it to him--Lycomedes, Odysseus, the Greeks, Peleus--and the rejection, the dismissal, not worth fathering. The gnawing jealousy and frustration of seeing other boys with their fathers, seeing their joys and conflicts and wondering why he wasn't good enough to have his own, convincing himself that he was good enough but his father just had a divine imperative to leave. The creeping, horrible thought in the back of his head that he tried to drown, ignored, repressed--that his father could have stayed, but just didn't care enough to.

The wrenching, horrible pain of the thought being confirmed. He didn't care enough to. Didn't care enough to stay, didn't care enough to think of him after he was gone, didn't care enough to live for him after his lover died, didn't care enough to give him the benefit of the doubt when others maligned him, didn't care enough to give him a chance until a better child came along and asked him to. Crumbling. Everything crumbling, his sense of self, his sense of the world around him, any sense that he can be loved.

His soul is marked. Everyone but his mother sees it. He's inherently unlovable, and he will exist and die and dissolve in the Lethe unloved.

The worst part is that his father does care. Just not enough. Never enough to choose him over anything else important.

Not enough to choose him over glory. Not enough to choose him over his lover. Not enough to choose him over following his lover into death. Not enough to choose him over his new child. Not enough to ever choose him over anything Achilles holds dear, because Neoptolemus will never be worth choosing.

Out of the cacophony, it takes time to extract the answer to Patroclus' question. Neoptolemus doesn't know it himself, consumed as he is by his pain, by his fragile sense of meaning collapsing, by the limitations of his ability to stop and reflect on himself.

But Mimir's knowledge is greater than Neoptolemus' ignorance.

Neoptolemus needs to be valued, and needs to be shown he's valued. He needs to be chosen over something else Achilles cares about, and needs to be chosen again and again, until he has enough time to trust that his father does value him and has decided to love him. He needs patience and understanding, to be accepted through his fits of anger and melancholy and pushing his father away, needs time. Time to drain the infection from his heart and heal, and then build his sense of self and meaning on something steadier and more real.

As the knowledge emerges, so too does context. Disorganized attachment. That's a term humans will one day use for people like Neoptolemus, people who so intensely want love and are so terrified of it at the same time. Pulling people close, then shoving them away, then hurting so deep if they actually leave, always unable to explain why they behave as they do, unable to predict how they'll feel or what they'll do, and so unpredictable to others. Common in people who experienced ambivalent, confusing relationships with caregivers growing up. It's not just Neoptolemus' father who contributed to this, but that's the easiest source for him to identify, next to all the adults besides his mother, the manipulations of Odysseus, the confusion of his relationships with the Greeks on the beach, and then Andromache, an ambiguous mix of mother and captive and lover and enemy. The work to mend his ability to connect with others can't be done by anyone else, only by Neoptolemus himself.

Hermes cringes at Pat's question, already predicting it'll have a painful, hard to swallow answer, and only hesitates a little before resting a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"And you? Your brain still intact?" he says, voice light but concerned.

Parts of this insight ring in painful harmony with Patroclus’ own experience. His own father mostly showed him ambivalence, and what love he showed was entirely conditional. In the latter case, the pride wasn’t in his son, but who his son stood next to.

Patroclus understands that much. He had the power to give up on his father, but it was only because he had people to replace him—Achilles, Peleus, his Greek comrades in arms.

He swallows hard as Neoptolemus’ confusion and despair crash over him. How could Achilles even begin to understand? He’s been adored his entire life. Pat grimaces, trying to imagine the dreaming conversations that Achilles recounted on his return to Elysium. How had they proceeded from Neoptolemus’ perspective?

His frown deepens around the sour guilt that Achilles chose him over his son. Why throw away his one precious life to chase a dead man into the Underworld? The fool.

Hermes’ question cuts through the harsh insight, but Pat can only nod his head mutely in answer.

Achilles gives Patroclus a pained look, shame rising in his chest. “What insight did you receive?”

“It’s not simple, Achilles. It will take time,” Pat says softly as he stands and dries his hands on his tunic. Like the iron, “I’ll hold it until it’s needed. Focus on yourself.”

Achilles doesn’t appear convinced so much as irritated, but he would rather move on than waste time arguing. His attention snaps back to their guide, voice taut. “Lord Lugh, please take us to the Morrígan.”

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Not me forgetting about Exagryph …

Pffff Well it's different when it's used by gods

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