Chapter Text
Achilles was not a father in life.
The one son he did sire he had no part in the raising of, and would much rather cast aside the thought of their relation than admit that they shared a bloodline. In his few years of life, he spent many of those at war. There was no room for a child on a battlefield, especially not when he was living off borrowed time. He and Patrolcus both knew of his destiny, that he was fated to kill Hector, to die in the fields of Troy, that each moment they spent together was one moment closer to Achilles’ end. That was no environment to raise a child in, no matter what stray thoughts flitted across his mind as he watched the women of the camp trail along behind wandering children, happily chasing whatever unfortunate bug had flown past them. They could not afford to bring a child into this life, and they both knew that, but it didn’t stop them from pondering, in the dead of night as they laid together in their tents, what it would be like to have a family.
So no, Achilles was not a father.
But lately, he felt as though he were one.
The House of Hades. The words still felt bitter in his mouth, the taste of soot and ash coating his tongue every time he reluctantly spat out formalities to the God of the Dead, the one who now held the eternity of the only person Achilles ever loved in his hands. He had signed the pact without so much as a moment's hesitation, forfeiting his place in Elysium, just for the knowledge that his beloved would rest peacefully there. An eternity serving as a guard in the House was worth the security of Patroclus, even if he was forbidden from returning to the Elysian fields as part of his sentence.
He was, for the most part, allowed his freedom within the walls of the House. He had his shifts in which he was required to stand guard in the West Hall, securing both the Master’s bedchambers and the Administrative Chambers. Guarding them from who is still an answer unknown to Achilles, who has yet to encounter an adversary or attempted rule-breaker in his time in the Underworld. When he wasn’t on duty, he was allowed to retreat to his private chambers, where he tended to spend the majority of his time not spent at his post. There was a lounge in the House, which he vehemently avoided, refusing to make contact with the godly inhabitants of the House. The only God in the House he conversed with was Lady Nyx and Lord Hades, both as a requirement of his position. Other than required conversations where he reported back to them at the end of his shift, he had maintained his vow of silence with the gods. He knew it was a dangerous game, showing such blatant disrespect, but his rage towards the gods which had influenced his life, tugging him around like a puppet on string, overshadowed any fear of discipline they might see fit to implement. The only thing holding him back from outwardly cursing both deities was the fear that they would cause harm to his Patroclus in Elysium, and so he grudgingly bit his tongue whenever his eyes met the Lord Master’s, or when Lady Nyx inclined her head to him as he passed.
He’s not sure how much time has passed since his arrival to the House when Lord Hades beckons him from his post, standing in front of his throne, turned away from Achilles. As Achilles approaches, Lord Hades turns to face him, his grim features contorted in an angry expression. Behind him stands what Achilles can only assume is a child, his face screwed up in a matching look of rage, mismatched eyes narrowed in a glare at the God of the Dead. It takes a moment for Achilles to register the glowing feet the child possesses, or the bright red garbs that only the royalty of the House are meant to wear, before he’s looking up to Lord Hades, confusion flooding his mind.
“Shade…” Lord Hades begins, a drawn-out sigh escaping him, “This boy is Zagreus, he is the prince of this domain, whether he acts like it or not--” A huff of indignation escapes--Zagreus?--at that, who quickly averts his gaze when Lord Hades turns to glare at him.
“As the prince, he must be trained in the ways of battle. Nyx tells me you were the best of your kind, I’m sure you would have no complaints about training this boy?” The way he says it leaves no room for refusal, even though Achilles has half a mind to. Who is he, to force him to take on this child? Why should he train this god, who could no doubt ruin the lives of mortals even without experience in weaponry? Was it a mockery, being told to train this god-child, when he had spent his life fighting against the influence of the gods? It was foolish, to think this god could not defend himself without a weapon, and the very thought had the ever boiling rage simmering under his skin.
But the thought of Patroclus, suffering under the whip of a Fury or in chains in Tartarus made him clench his jaw and nod, knowing his refusal could compromise the safety of his beloved. He would not think to disobey his Master, especially not such a direct order, knowing Patroclus’ livelihood was on the line. He looked back again at the god child, whose mouth was open in what could only be a protest to this new revelation that Achilles would be his teacher, before Lord Hades dismissed them both. There was a moment where neither shade nor god moved, before Zagreus promptly turned away from him and ran off towards the East Wing, fiery feet leaving footprints in his wake. In a calmer stride, Achilles followed, entering a room he had never been in before in his time at the House.
He was taken aback by the mess that greeted him in the new room, loose items of clothing thrown over furniture, books scattered around on the floor, overflowing chests shoved into various corners; and in the middle of it all, a bed, with a suspiciously child-sized lump hidden under the blue sheets. He approached the bed slowly, as not to startle the prince, reminding himself of all the times he had watched Patroclus do the same with scared or wounded animals in the camp. He sits down on the side of the bed, sitting in silence for a few moments before clearing his throat, unsure of how to address the hiding prince.
“My Prince, I...I believe we have not previously met. My name is Achilles, I understand your Lord father wishes for me to train you?” Upon receiving no response, he tries again, folding his hands in his lap, mustering up all the patience he has left, so as not to offend the god.
“If you would like, we could start your training today? I’m not sure where exactly that would take place but…” He trails off as the mass under the blankets shifts, and a lump of jet black hair sticks out from underneath, followed by the rest of the Prince’s head. He looks, well, miserable, a pout on his pale face and his eyes downcast, looking as though he wishes he were anywhere else when he finally retracts himself from under his blanket fortress and begins twisting his hands together in his lap.
“The courtyard. That’s where father sends me when he thinks I’m being annoying. It's through there.” He gestures to the doorway behind Achilles, where a shining light filters into the room. When Achilles glances back at the prince, he continues, “If you don’t want to teach me that’s fine, I can just tell father we spared and you got tired of me. You can go back to your post afterwards.” At that, the prince flops back down onto the bed, facing away from Achilles. Stunned, Achilles continues to sit and stare for a few beats, wondering in what world would he be suggested by the Prince of the Underworld, a God , that Achilles had the right to disobey direct orders from his master, and over something as fickle as being annoyed with the prince? Even if he was, he would never speak it into existence, for fear of punishment and retaliation, but here the prince was acting as if he had the ability to pick and choose which duties of his he obeys.
At the realization that the prince is not going to continue speaking, Achilles takes a moment to look around the room, at all the clutter and junk strewn across it. Bookshelves line the walls at the other side of the room, scrolls shoved haphazardly into pots and what he hopes to be decorative skulls sitting on the floor. He looks at the shelf above the prince’s bed and scans over their spines, hoping to identify one as familiar. He’s not sure why, or where the feeling is coming from, but he has an ache in his chest that makes him desperate for any item that could prompt another conversation between the two. The forlorn expression decorating the prince’s face had done something to him, tugging persistently at his heartstrings. If Patroclus were there he’d be calling him a sap, but he ignores that thought and the pain it brings in favor of grabbing off the shelf a poem he had been familiar with in his mortal days. It was one the men would tell around the fire during festivals or celebrations, drunk off good wine and the momentary forgetfulness that there was still a war to be fought come sunrise.
He scans through the pages, memories of nights spent next to Patroclus as the others recounted stories and tales in their own exaggerated manner coming to the forefront of his mind. He shakes his head, dispelling the memory from his mind.. Best not to get caught up in the past, not when everything he had ever known is gone from him, and the one person of importance in each memory is worlds apart from him.
“Ah, Prince...I hope you won’t mind if I read a bit of this? You have quite the collection down here, I’m impressed.” He’s even more impressed when the Prince rolls over, peeking out over the covers to see what Achilles is referring to. Evidently, he must enjoy it as well, as he sits up and eagerly nods, any trace of hesitation or guard gone. Achilles smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, but feels more like a grimace to him. It’s been awhile since he’d had something to be joyful about, and the act of smiling is almost foreign to him. He starts to read silently, feeling more than a little awkward as the Prince continues to stare at him with an excitable gleam in his red and green eyes, pausing when the Prince puts his hands down on the page.
“Will you read it to me? Nyx used to read to me when I was younger, but father told her to stop. Since you're my teacher, he can’t say anything about it!” That makes Achilles chuckle, the logic of a child something so pure and uninhibited that he can’t even argue against it, and motions for the Prince to move over so he can sit more comfortably on the bed. Sure, Lord Hades had instructed him to teach the Prince the ways of combat, but perhaps there was room in his lessons for reading as well.
As he reads to the Prince, the thought occurs to him that while he may be a god, he isn’t anything more than a child, a child who loves being read to and hides under his blankets when he’s nervous. It’s so achingly human, the way Zagreus acts, that Achilles can’t find the resentment and bitterness that he originally believed he harbored towards the child.
The gods are cruel, fickle beings, Achilles is far too aware of that fact, but...well...perhaps not all of them are as awful as he previously believed. Especially when Achilles looks up from his book and sees the lad laying there, curled in on himself, sleeping peacefully beside him.