Chapter Text
Sounds of focused exertion and light, swift feet come from Zagreus’ courtyard, followed by Skelly’s exaggerated yelps and pleas. Each impact fills Philia with satisfaction- faster and faster and faster. Deftly wielding the spear, time slows as she lands on the ball of her foot. She begins the twist, a golden ripple of energy rising from her foot, to her hips, to her waist, pivoting sharply into an electrified whirlwind as she slices the broad end of the spear across Skelly’s body, final blow cleaving him in two.
Phi’s not supposed to be in this courtyard by herself, and she knows that. But it’s so much fun! There’s so much more, here: the shining weapons that Uncle Zag isn’t using; gigantic, powerful, and untouchable. His giant crystal case, holding all of the trinkets that he’s been gifted by gods and men alike. If she looks closely, she can see her fathers’ gifts, though she’s not very impressed by Papa’s (a broken spear tip? Really, Papa? So lazy!) Sometimes she runs to the end of the platform, leaning over to see the misery that is Tartarus. While its wails of agony and dismal smoke is off-putting, there’s still a strange beauty in the organization of it all. Sometimes she stands all the way on the edge and wonders what it would be like to jump.
Skelly rises from the dirt, dramatically dusting himself.
“That was impressive, kid! Where’d you learn that one?”
Philia beams, flipping her curls in a way her Papa often calls ‘just like your Daddy’.
“I saw my Papa do it once when I was little. Littler. He fought the minotaur, and it was so cool! It’s not good enough yet, but I’ve been practicing, because one day I’m going to use it on Daddy during sparring!”
“A close-up finishing move, aye? Used on the great Achilles? You’d be the only one who could claim it.” Skelly mumbles the last bit to himself, unwilling to reveal what isn’t his to tell.
Philia bites her lip, trying to hide her mischievous grin. She can tell that her Daddy isn’t really taking her seriously when they spar, yet she hasn’t won a single fight. He only hesitated once, the day she stormed up to him and demanded he fight her. Daddy only made a strange face at her Papa, before raising an eyebrow.
“No!” she’d cried, grabbing a fistful of his chiton. “I’m talking to you! Stop looking at Papa!”
He’d knelt down to look her in the eye, assuaging her offense. “Are you sure about this, Phi? I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m not going to go easy on you either.”
“Yes! I wanna get better!”
She’d been face first in the dirt in seconds. He’d tripped her over her own feet.
“Now be fair,” Papa chastised, lips pursed.
Take it easy on her is what he was saying, and the blood rushed to Philia’s head.
“No! I can do it! Daddy,” she commanded, imperial. “Again!”
Over and over, she did not land a single blow, hitting the ground so many times that by the end of practice her dress was filthy, her shoulders shook, and her eyes burned with tears. But she refused to quit, and it was Papa who couldn’t take it anymore and swept her off her feet.
“You hurt my baby again and I’ll shove your face into the dirt,” he’d hissed, sweeping away. They hadn’t spoken for some time, and there were no more practices. Finally, Philia demanded her Daddy to make a stand, wrapping themselves in blankets and refusing to eat dinner. Papa took one look and rolled his eyes.
“Are you both really going to do this?”
Philia had turned her nose up and away. “Daddy won’t spar unless you apologize! I wanna practice some more, so apologize to Daddy or I’m not talking to you anymore!”
“Achilles.”
“Our daughter has spoken, and she won’t speak again.”
(She never noticed Achilles trying not to break at Patroclus’ fond exasperation, cheeks shaking with amusement. He couldn’t help it; he knows what this looks like, but it’s cute when Philia does it! They made up appropriately later.)
Every day since then, she’s trained and practiced with both of them. Papa teaches her ‘grounding techniques’, and Daddy makes sure to give more advice after they fight. She can last much longer now- falling in minutes instead of seconds! These days, Daddy has to block when she swings, and they move around the courtyard like flashes of light. He’s fiercely proud of her, and she’s fiercely proud of herself. She’s really going to be proud when she hits him with this new move and watches him get nervous.
She’s so lost in her daydreams of finally securing a hit that she doesn’t notice the air above her changing, morphing as two gigantic beings manifest in the space. Skelly does, but before he can say anything, one of the gods waves her hand and he sinks back into the sand.
“Oh, look at her!” Artemis coos, making Philia near jump out of her skin. “She’s so precious, look Apollo!”
She floats, much larger than the size she takes when she enters the House. She tilts forward, peering at Philia as one might peer at a newborn pup taking its first steps. Apollo reclines decadently in the air as though on the finest of couches. Though Philia can tell that they must be siblings, the man is still handsomer, burnished skin glowing gold under his pristine ivory chiton. He brings an unnatural light to the darkness, his sharp, strange eyes most of all.
“She is,” he agrees, voice melodic. “An absolute doll if I must say so myself. Surely not of this dismal house. You must be one of the special ones we didn’t meet! Come here, doll. Let me look at you more closely.”
Now, Philia has only ever met the Chthonic gods face to face. She knows that they have vast powers, beyond what she and Kairos could ever contemplate, yet they have always seemed warm, kind, comforting. These gods in front of her- and she can tell that they are gods, the way the air whips around them- are different, cold and distant in their kindness. Still, she’s always been taught to be respectful to the gods, so she timidly walks forward, face down.
“Hm,” he muses, tilting his head. Before she can introduce herself, she finds herself swept off the ground, disoriented amongst the darkness, and landing on his palm. He tilts her head up to observe her features, snorting in amusement when she closes her eyes.
“Hm. Deferent, too. I like you, doll! You may open your eyes; it’s not so often that one can gaze upon the glory of the Olympians!”
Philia pops one eye open, and upon Apollo’s gentle smile, she smiles in return, gripping his pointer finger. Okay, maybe the Olympians aren’t so scary after all! Kairos is going to be soooo jealous when he hears!
“What’s your name and how old are you, child?” Artemis asks. “Why were you holding a weapon when we arrived?”
“My name is Philia, I’m ten, and I was practicing my fighting!”
Artemis is pleased. “Ten- practically an infant! A little warrior, then- have you ever hunted?”
Hunted? “What’s that?”
Artemis flashes with light, an ecstatic grin on her face, and Apollo snorts.
“Oh no, doll,” he scoffs. “You’ve gone and asked her about hunting. We’ll be here forever! Not that I can’t afford it, but I have things to do!”
“Oh, do shut up, Apollo. Give her here then, since you’re so ‘busy’, and go do whatever it is you’re going to do. I was only here to try to show ‘support’ since I apparently ‘never show up to anything’.”
Petulant, Apollo pulls Philia closer, cradling her to his warm face. Philia’s arms spread across his cheek, and she flushes.
“No! She’s my doll! Look at her, she’s going to be entirely too beautiful to be a part of your miserable spinster’s cult. I just can’t bear the thought of losing such lovely cheeks! Do you like arts and music, doll?”
Philia nods, and Apollo is smug. Artemis scowls.
“It’s not a cult, you superficial buffoon! And perhaps she would be better with Kallisto and I. She’s already so graceful and strong, just look at her physique- she’d make an excellent huntress. Don’t lump her in with the babbling fools you take for your actual cult of ‘oracles’.”
“Ha!” Apollo cackles, lips quirked. “Oh, you’re hilarious, sister, truly. Don’t get me started about the things I know about your girl, Kallisto-”
“Put my daughter down.”
The imperative slips from Patroclus before he can even conceptualize the consequences of his actions.
He’d been sitting with Achilles for his short break, there to pick Philia up from the garden where she was supposed to be playing. Next thing they knew, Dusa had rushed into the lounge, letting them know that Olympians would be visiting soon. How calculated of them, to arrive when none of the House gods were present to meet them. Classic of the Olympians, to play by their own rules.
Now, they stand in horror and fury in front of the god that hates them the most, watching as he toys with their heart like a ragdoll. Philia must not realize how small she looks, the way a single flick of the god’s petty finger could crush her like an insect. Instead, she smiles at him, at both of them, lost in their glamour.
Worst of all, Patroclus just foolishly gave him every reason to hurt her. Apollo and Artemis cut their eyes at them, instantly on each other’s side at the audacity of this dead human to command them- them, Olympians!
“Kneel,” Artemis commands, furious, and their knees slam into the hard floor. It’s even worse when Apollo does a languid up and down of Patroclus, and glances over at a furious Achilles behind him.
“Oh.” The false realization falls as sharply as a blade, Apollo’s voice cold. “This is your child. That explains a lot. Ooooh, Aphrodite is going to adore this. Philia’s wonderful, really- beautiful, absolutely bred to be a warrior. I can tell. She also likes the arts and music, so she told me. Really, I’d love to have her by to learn some things when she’s older, if she’s interested.”
Having already gone too far, they’re trying not to do anything rash, but hearing the way his voice glides across the implication is sickening. Achilles’ hands tighten on his spear, the wood beginning to splinter in his hands.
“Thank you for your kind words and offer,” Patroclus attempts, head down, jaw tight despite his lighter tone.
“That’s better,” Artemis snorts.
“You know,” speaks Apollo, “we were actually here to inquire about the child that I commissioned. Though, I heard Orpheus has a child too. Really, such wonderful beings. We’ll have to drop by again.”
Commissioned. As though they were just pieces of clay. Not only this, but there’s an unknown child that they know nothing about, under the gaze of Olympus. A soft, inquisitive noise leads the twins to glance at Philia, who is still gazing at Apollo.
“What is it, doll?”
Achilles has to stop himself from flinching at the possessive address.
“I never told you about Kairos!” she cries, noticing the slip. Apollo grins, nudging her cheek with his little finger.
“I heard it in your thoughts! You showed me those beautiful emerald eyes, and I read them!” Philia covers her eyes, trying to protect her thoughts, and he laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not listening anymore. But your fathers are waiting for you, Philia. Shouldn’t you go to them?”
Philia nods, waiting to be taken to the ground. Instead, Apollo leans next to her head.
“Jump.”
A terrified cry rips from Patroclus as Philia leaps, his locs whipping by his side as Achilles sprints forward to catch her before she breaks on the ground. Unaware, Philia laughs at the excitement, though it slows when she notices Achilles has not let her go, holding her head in his grasp.
“Daddy, are you sad? You’re glowing. I’m okay.”
She cannot see the unhinged fury on Achilles’ face, the way everything inside of him demands blood for threatening and discarding his child in front of him.
“Achilles. Come back here, right now.”
Patroclus’ command is raw, desperate, and it’s enough to snap him back into himself. He quickly returns to his spot behind his husband. Just then, before anything else can happen, Hades storms into the room, Persephone behind him. The Lord of the House is furious, and it’s enough to quell Artemis and Apollo into a begrudging sense of deference, shrinking them to a hostable size.
“I see your father has decided to impede upon my graciousness once again, sending you to harass my employees,” he growls, firmly planting himself in front of the family. “To think we were on good terms.”
Artemis swallows another huff, and Apollo only half-shrugs. “That’s not why we’re here, Uncle! We just happened to run into these kind people on our way, and we received quite the warm welcome.”
While they go back and forth, Persephone lifts the family from their kneeling position.
“Let’s get you back to Elysium,” she comforts, though her voice is tight.
They discretely turn to leave, though a keen-eyed Apollo doesn’t miss anything, waving at Philia.
“Good-bye, doll! I hope you think about what your fathers’ love brings you!”
“What does that even mean?”
Achilles has paced non-stop since they arrived in their glade, walking back and forth between the bedroom door and wall like a madman. Anxiety and wrath storm inside him, his faint glow still visible. Patroclus feels no better, deep in thought. The door is open, allowing them to hear Philia play in her room, to hear if anyone should intrude.
“It’s likely to disturb us, to violate our peace,” he concludes. “He knows that just the thought of something harming her will drive us to confusion.”
“And how did he know about Kairos? I’ve never known the gods to be able to read minds with no effort. It must be trickery.”
“I agree. He likely had already heard about him from somewhere. Perhaps the boatman and the messenger god?”
Charon had never struck either of them as a man thirsty for gossip, but when one spent time with Hermes, it was likely inevitable. Still, why hadn’t Apollo heard of both children, then? Nyx had promised that there was a cover of night over the underworld, the same that had protected Zagreus during his youth. So how had he discovered one to begin with?
“I suppose it doesn’t matter to dwell on it,” Patroclus decides, swallowing down his fears. “As it stands, they know about her now. And there’s another child somewhere that they’ve had their eye on; as long as it remains that child, we should be okay.”
Persephone hadn’t been forthcoming about the mysterious child either, her lips sealed as she placed them on Charon’s boat. So, it’s a hopeful theory at best, but he doesn’t have much else to go on. To understand the motives of the gods was to understand each grain of sand on a beach- unfathomable. He waves Achilles close.
“Come sit down, love.”
Achilles doesn’t sit, but he stands near enough for Patroclus to wrap his arms around his waist, hugging him. The gentle touch is enough for Achilles’ flame to flicker out completely, and he leans into the embrace.
“Philtatos did you hear how he spoke of her? Like she was a toy, my daughter; like she was nothing to him. He told her to jump on purpose, he knew that she would trust us enough to do it. What if I hadn’t caught her? What if-”
Achilles feels soft hands squeezing his own as Patroclus shushes him.
“Shhh. Don’t torment yourself with what ifs. You caught her. She’s okay. Let’s just try to stay calm for right now. He likely made his point, and we just have to be more vigilant, is all.”
It quickly becomes clear that the God of Illness had a further point to make when Patroclus holds the back of his hand to Philia’s forehead the next morning, hissing at how warm it is. Sweat soaks through her cloth dress, her hair plastered to her face. He ties her hair up, offering her a cool cloth to wipe down.
“No numbers’ lessons today,” she cheers, voice raspy.
“Oh? I don’t know, you might still need them. What’s two plus two?”
Philia scoffs, roughly wiping her face and handing it back.
“Come on, I’m not a baby anymore, Papa! I’m just sick. It’s four.”
“Sorry, but you’ll always be our baby. And are you sure? Sickness not rotting your mind?”
Philia’s confident expression wavers when his face remains stoic, rinsing out the cloth.
“It is four! Papa!”
Patroclus laughs, snatching the pillow she tossed at him out of the air. That much energy leaves her feeling weak, and she grabs her head.
“I feel dizzy.”
“Lay back down then,” Patroclus cajoles, fluffing the pillow and helping her lie back. Philia pouts at the ceiling, frustrated.
“This isn’t fair,” she whines. “I was going to beat Daddy in a fight today.”
He places the cold cloth over her forehead and eyes. “Were you?”
“Yeah. I had a… a special move. It’s a surprise! I was working on it when Lord Apollo and Lady Artemis showed up.”
Patroclus pauses, unsure of how to phrase his thoughts.
“Papa?”
“I’m still here.” Another moment. “Phi, how did… Did you feel safe, amongst the Lord and Lady?”
There’s quiet, and then Philia tries a shrug.
“I didn’t feel unsafe. They were nice. Intense. It felt like they were funny, but in a way I didn’t get. I just figured it was because they were adults, and Gods.”
Despite her wording, it’s an unusually intuitive response. It seems that they’d underestimated Philia’s senses and overestimated their own.
“You did a good job, being respectful. They seemed to like you.” A god’s favor could mean the world, but it could be lost in a heartbeat. He can only hope that they were genuinely entertained.
“Good! They seemed like they’d be fun to be around. She said I’d be a good huntress. Can you tell me about that, Papa?”
Patroclus obliges, weaving an imaginative description of animals Philia has never seen, promising pictures later when she’s not so tired. He tells her of the men and women behind the skill, of the effort it takes to hunt prey, of tricks they might use to better their chances of bringing them home. She’s astonished when he tells her some of the happier legends of Artemis, of her unmatchable prowess with a bow and arrow, of the ladies who consider themselves blessed to be by her side.
“Can we go hunting, one day?” she asks, squeezing his forearm. Her strength is noticeably lessened, and it’s a blessing that her eyes are covered so that she cannot see her father’s expression. “I want to see a hawk!”
“Of course, we can. I don’t know what we could hunt and eat, here. But we can practice.”
A light knock at the doorframe gains their attention, though Philia doesn’t move from her prone position. Achilles kneels near the bedside, gently thumbing her cheek.
“Hi, Daddy,” she whispers, smiling.
“Oh, that’s not the war cry I’m used to,” he teases, veiling his concern. “Taking it a little easier, today?”
“Mm! I’m saving up my energy and I’m going to beat you tomorrow.”
“Is that so?”
Patroclus nods. “She’s got a special move to show you.”
“Papa! Don’t tell him!”
He dramatically snaps his jaw shut, loud enough for her to hear, and Philia giggles. A little more time passes before her face relaxes into sleep, and they make their way to the kitchen. A pot of soup simmers, its savory smell warm and comforting. Achilles goes to stir it and his face falls.
“There’s onions in this.”
“It helps with illness. We can take her a small bowl once she’s awake.”
Achilles sighs, scowling at the pot. “I love my daughter more than I hate onions,” he petulantly mutters. His grimace lifts into a grin when Patroclus comes up behind and aggressively nuzzles into him, rubbing his facial hair into the soft skin and then sealing it with a kiss.
“Thank you for being reasonable about this.”
Everything had been fine last night. Philia’s fever hadn’t broken yet, but she’d managed to hold a little soup. It was an unusually quiet night, devoid of the sounds of play and excited chatter, but there’d been no signs of impending doom. That all shatters with a spine-curling scream.
It’s long, drawn out, as though the victim is in skin-melting agony. Achilles and Patroclus rise from their rest, immediately at Phi’s door. They’re spared effort when it’s hurled open and Philia collapses out, slamming into Patroclus’ chest.
“Philia,” he cries, struggling as she claws against his hands, leaving caustic red welts behind. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Let me go, get off, get off, it hurts, I’m on fire!”
Patroclus lets her go, and she scrambles blindly to the bathroom, leaping into the tub. Whatever ails her isn’t solved and she wails even louder, fingers clawing so hard into the side of the stone pool that they bleed.
“DO SOMETHING!” Philia roars, slamming her head into the tub so hard that it breaks skin. “MY BACK IS ON FIRE!”
Blood trickles down her nose, and Achilles races forward, firmly gripping her head between his arms. Philia flails in agony, but her golden hair stays still as he refuses to let her hurt herself any further. Patroclus grips the back of her dress, quickly scanning it for any sign of oil or poison or anything that could be causing her such distress, and hisses when he sees uplifted red welts on her back.
“Phi, I’m about to open the back of your dress, don’t panic,” he warns, and with little effort he tears the pajama dress. Years of restraint upon seeing gruesome battle wounds activate upon the reveal of Philia’s ailment, stopping him from hissing in upset.
There are five bright red, irritated circular welts zigzagging from her shoulder blade to the small of her back. Each circle is surrounded by a corona of veins, each of them interlocking with the next one in the line like five suns near alignment in the cosmos. If it weren’t such a horrifying injury; if it were on paper or gilded in gold in a temple, Patroclus might consider it a beautiful piece of art.
It’s a garish warning from a god that wants them to remember that he can control plague as beautifully as a melody or a painting.
“Why is he doing this,” Patroclus whimpers, hand wavering in front of Philia’s twitching back, unsure of what he can do. “Why would he make her suffer?”
“Because he knows it will make us suffer,” Achilles replies, still firmly holding Philia. She’s stopped squeezing the tub and is now gripping Achilles’ forearms so tightly that they’re bruising, her strength more than tripled in her panic, but he doesn’t budge an inch. Her wailing has quieted into a pathetic, guttural sob. “What are we going to do?”
Patroclus dashes into the kitchen, finding a cup and one of their last bottles of ambrosia. He pours a full cup, and rushes back to the bathroom.
“We’re going to have her drink this, if only to numb the pain a little bit, and then we’re going to find some medicine for her. Do you think you can hold her and make sure she drinks, while I pour water onto her back?”
“I got it.”
When Patroclus nods his head, Achilles loosens his grip on Philia’s head, swiftly grabbing her small wrists in one of his. With the other hand he lifts the cup to her lips, now tightly pressed and bleeding from how hard she’s biting. Patroclus cups his hands, pouring water over the welts for minimal damage control. Philia turns terrified eyes towards him, body quaking like captured prey, and it’s tearing Achilles apart.
“I know it hurts, sweetheart, but you’re going to have to drink it. If you need to scream afterwards, you can, but you need to drink this first. Please.”
With visible exertion, Philia unclenches her lip, choking down the ambrosia. True to his word, Achilles does nothing as she begins her screaming once more, allowing her to sob into his arms. Two sets of dark bruises mar his pale skin, but he bears the pain as Patroclus continues to pour water over the wounds. It seems an eternity of waiting, but Philia eventually cries herself into sleep, the combination of the drink and her own exhaustion winning out.
“Do you need help moving her?” Achilles asks, rinsing the sweat and blood from her forehead. Patroclus shakes his head, gently lifting her from the tub and wrapping her in a towel.
“Go.”
By the third miserable day, Philia’s limbs hang loosely from the bed, extra pillows shoved underneath her stomach to reduce pressure on her exposed skin, since bandages only aggravate the pain. She’s been dosed with constant life essence and ambrosia to numb her pain, and Hypnos has kindly sent his tinctures to make sure she spends more time asleep than awake, but there’s been no sign of healing.
It’s not to say that Achilles hadn’t tried. It had even made Charon flinch when Achilles sprinted to his shop, arms covered in bruises and dried blood, demanding to know if he had medicine. When Charon had nothing, he’d frantically made his way to the House, terrifying onlookers who’d thought the mad hero had returned. Nyx and Persephone have been by, shaking their heads at Apollo’s cruelty, but despite their efforts there’s nothing they can do. The only one who could remove such a curse would be the god himself, and according to Zagreus, Artemis hasn’t shown a hair since Apollo set the curse.
When he couldn’t access Apollo himself, he tried begging Lord Hades for help. Down on his knees, forehead into the floor, in front of an entire room- pride of a prince be damned.
Please help her, he pled, she’s in agony, I can’t watch her suffer like this! Call him, I will beg at his feet, please just do something!
The God of the Dead could offer no solutions nor condolences, though he was the only one to be clear about what everyone was thinking:
If all else, she will simply perish and return here.
Before Achilles could do something stupid- like charge for the throat of an Olympian and his Master- he’d quickly been knocked unconscious by Hypnos. He woke up in his glade, Zagreus placing him down in the grass.
“Achilles, sir, it’s just me,” Zagreus warned, nervous when Achilles began to shake. “I just can’t believe they’re acting like this! I’ve never seen this side of Lady Artemis before!”
Perhaps Zagreus had expected vengeful, violent wrath upon his naïve comment, or at least to be cursed out and demanded away.
To his immense shame, Achilles started to bawl. Large tears welled in his eyes, and his expression shattered. He hadn’t cried so hard since he’d lost Patroclus, that familiar sense of loss and failure rearing its ugly head. There’d been nothing Zagreus could do to console him, and he’d swiftly ran to find Patroclus. Soon he felt the strong arms of his husband around him, centering his pain, their own tears mingling together.
Let it all out here, love, was all Patroclus said. She’s frightened, and she doesn’t need to see us panicking.
By now, Philia has stopped eating. Her eyes are sunken, her limp hair always surrounded by a faint aura of gold, and all of her energy is gone. They’ve done the best they can to distract her; showing her pictures, telling her stories, asking her all sort of questions to start conversation. Zagreus had stopped by with a handmade card beautifully drawn by Kairos, full of get well wishes from the entire House and pictures of them playing together. Even Grandpa Hades had signed his name, all serious and at the bottom! Philia asked for it to be propped up by her bedside so she could see it, smiling for the first time since the entire ordeal began.
Patroclus slumps on the floor, leaned against Philia’s bedside. Defeat sinks into his long dead bones- he knows it’s soon. She won’t last much longer. Achilles enters the room and sits near the door, as though he’s blocking out the bad. The thing is, they know she’ll reappear, but that hasn’t made slowly losing her any easier. In the darkest of his thoughts, Achilles has wondered if he should simply put her out of her misery, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Even though the thought of her knowing he’d ended her life makes him want to vomit. Perhaps that makes him a coward.
He breaks the silence with a sardonic cackle, making Patroclus stare in suspicion.
“What is it?”
“It’s strange, really. I just had the craziest thought, one so strange that I almost don’t think I’m the one that thought it. Yet, this is me. I’m really thinking about him.”
Frowning, Patroclus turns his body towards Achilles. “What? Who?”
“Agamemnon.”
Patroclus is on his feet at lightning speed, stunning even the fastest of the Greeks as he signs away evil and lifts a carving knife from his side, wielding it with bared teeth.
“Get out of my home.”
Achilles quickly rises. “Patroclus-”
“Who are you, what have you done with my husband, and why are you in my house? Leave at once!”
“… Patroclus is it really so unbelievable that I’d-”
“Yes!” Patroclus hisses, and his eyes flash with a bloodthirsty protectiveness. “Get away from my daughter! She’s suffering enough, we’re miserable, what more could you want from us?!”
Fearful, Achilles flips through every memory that they shared, trying to come up with one that will prove he is who he says he is. He lifts his hands and holds them out to show he means no harm.
“Philtatos, listen to me. On Mt. Pelion, when we were young, you crafted me a small statue of a singing boy from wood for my birthday. You told me that it was me. The gods and my mother couldn’t see us on the mountain, so our first time was-”
“Okay! Don’t tell that-” Patroclus whispers, scandalized as he looks back at Philia’s sleeping body. “You can stop.”
Achilles moves forward, gently pushing down the knife. Patroclus’ deep eyes water, and he yields the knife to Achilles as he tries to push down his sobs.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, and the thought of losing you too to some wicked game, I just-”
They both fall to the ground, Achilles soothing Patroclus until he collects himself.
“Why Agamemnon?” he murmurs, head rested on Achilles’ shoulder. “You hated him. I don’t understand.”
“Iphigenia,” Achilles replies, running a soothing hand through Patroclus’ locs. It seems a literal lifetime ago, the way Agamemnon had sacrificed Iphigenia to Artemis in order to bless the winds of their journey. “Iphigenia. Philia. Perhaps he’d called her Phi, too.”
This is by far the most bizarre conversation Patroclus has ever held. There were many things he thought he would never hear from the proud prince in his lifetime, and while death had changed his husband’s outlook and demeanor, this was certainly not something he ever thought would change.
“Many a shade has approached Philia and asked her of me, and they do not believe her when she tells of the man I am in her eyes. What if he had he been the same- a doting father in secret? I can hardly fathom it, the bastard. And yet, I can’t imagine not loving Philia with my whole heart. I cannot fathom what it would take, to sacrifice her life for country, how much it would have broken me to have to make that decision. I don’t think I would have at all. And as wrong as I was for damning our compatriots due to my foolish pride, I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her safe.”
“Perhaps that is why you weren’t the one in charge,” Patroclus tries to tease. Still, he dwells on it and finds that he cannot disagree. Logic tells him that her life is not worth everyone else’s, and yet he’d rather die himself. He wishes that it was him that Apollo had chosen to scar for his disrespect, rather than torment him by torturing his child for her father’s actions. Achilles only snorts.
“And the thing is, it almost puts his actions into perspective for me. If I had to really lose Philia in exchange, I wouldn’t walk away until Troy was ash, and every man was fallen before my feet. We would not leave. I wouldn’t care what anyone had to say; you would fight, or you would die. It’s wrong, but I can see how it would be a motivation. It’s like there’s no right answer, except to turn around and go home the way we all should have when the winds didn’t bless our sails.”
Patroclus had heard how Agamemnon had been murdered by his vengeful, heartbroken wife after the loss of her child- the spirits of Elysium had cackled with delight, the great King of Kings brought low. He didn’t like the man in life- in fact, he despised him alongside Achilles- but between his greed, insecure hold on power, and sly advisors constantly waiting for him to make a single slip, he did not envy him his position. There were hardly any happy endings among the men who gave the most. Slick, cutthroat Odysseus, suffering the loss of the crafty mind that won them a war, and eventually his life, with practically a whimper. So many bloodlines, destroyed by a war that gained only those few men fame.
All of it, because of the sacrifice of a little girl.
Patroclus turns a wry eye. “It’s killing you inside to admit this, isn’t it?”
“Ugh, I can’t stand it!” Achilles groans, running his hands down his face. “To think, I really had empathetic feelings towards that arrogant, bumbling fraud of a man! And I don’t think he truly felt that way- greed clearly meant more to him than his child- but it’s in my mind, demanding ‘what-if’. Always with the what-ifs.”
“An unfortunate part of parenting: growing up.”
Achilles playfully nudges Patroclus’ head. “You and your sharp tongue.”
The energy of the room feels lighter; if Patroclus tries, he can imagine that they’re cuddled together under the sun once more, perhaps by the quiet stream on Mt. Pelion.
“Can I join the hug too, Daddy?”
The image quickly vanishes for Philia, who twitches with unspoken pain as she leans toward them. They’re immediately on their feet, Patroclus gently moving her back toward the pillows.
“Phi, I know this must hurt!” he chastises. “We can give you all the hugs you want after you’re feeling better, okay?”
“You were going to do that anyway,” she quietly huffs. “I want one now. It doesn’t hurt.”
Achilles frowns. “Philia, I can see that you’re lying-”
“Please?”
Her gaze is far more serious than a child’s should ever be, steady and strong despite her current weakness, and he breaks.
“Fine. But only for a little while.”
“Yay! Thank you!” Her cheer is quiet, but she obediently stays still as Patroclus wraps her in the bedsheet, bravely controlling her flinch at the contact. He sits her down in Achilles’ lap, holding on to the other end of the wrap covering her feet. Her skin has gone the opposite direction, now freezing instead of feverish.
“Are you happy?” Patroclus asks, tucking the ends of the sheet around her feet and shoulders.
“Mhm! Thank you, Papa.”
Achilles and Patroclus share a look of concern as Philia huddles into Achilles’ chest, seemingly unconcerned about her injuries.
“Does it…really not hurt, Philia? Tell the truth,” Adds Achilles, voice stern, when she goes to shake her head. Philia’s lips fall into a pout.
“It’s funny. It burns, but it also tingles. Like my feet if I don’t use them enough, and they get sleepy. But I want to sit with you! I don’t wanna be in the bed anymore!”
That is concerning; if this isn’t the final step in Apollo and Artemis’ torment, what else could possibly be coming? They think she’s fallen asleep again when she starts shivering, but when they go to lift her, a scrawny hand flashes out from the sheet and grips Achilles’ shirt.
“No,” she commands, her voice filled with gravitas.
“Philia, you are freezing, maybe-”
“No,” she says again. “I don’t want to be alone.” When I die goes unspoken, and it’s enough to put her fathers in their place. It is clear that Philia has come to her own conclusions about how her first life will end, and they dare not interrupt that. When she’s sure they’re not going to move, she releases Achilles’ shirt, slinking it back into the cover.
“Am I going to the House?” she asks, euphemism clear enough.
“Yes,” whispers Patroclus.
“But I’ll be back?”
Achilles forces his sob back down his throat. “Of course. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Philia hums, content. “It’s okay, then. I’ll always be back.”
“That’s right.”
Despite himself, Patroclus reaches out a hand, phantom heart shaking in his chest when she wraps her hand around his thumb. Her hand is so tiny compared to his, yet that strong grip on his thumb tethers him like an anchor. Philia closes her eyes and sighs into Achilles’ chest.
“I hope that the other Phi got apologies from her dad to feel better,” she suddenly whispers. “That would make me happy if I were her.”
They hardly have time to register that she’d been listening when she takes one final breath, disintegrating into the Styx.
Persephone is the first to notice when Philia slowly rises from the blood pool, half naked, shivering, and head downcast. She swiftly makes her way over, yanking a towel from the rack and wrapping it around her shoulders. Philia rushes into her arms, squeezing around her in a tight hug, and Persephone returns it, relieved when Philia doesn’t flinch.
“It doesn’t hurt, dearest?”
Philia shakes her head. “No. I didn’t like dying, Grandma Nini.”
It sickens Persephone to her stomach, the way her cousins could be so cruel and face no consequences. She lifts Philia up into her arms, cradling her as she gestures to Hades to summon Thanatos.
“I’m so sorry, Philia. It’s not your fault. The Olympians are fickle, and they enjoy having their way with us all. You’re very strong, and I’m very proud of you. I know your fathers are, too. Let’s get you home to them, okay?”
“Okay.”
The familiar gong rings as Thanatos arrives in the hall, immediately bowing his head to his queen.
“Thanatos- take her home at once.”
Thanatos wavers, unsure of how to handle this situation. He’s strange when it comes to children- he’s never felt any sort of emotional connection to them, finds them odd, loud creatures. But he’s not heartless- grown men have cowered upon the approach of death, so he finds patience when retrieving youthful souls. Persephone lifts Philia to his shoulders, and she grips on tight. This is the sort of thing Zagreus ought to be doing, he wants to cry. He’s her favorite!
“Thank you, Uncle Than. I feel safe.”
…………
His eyes are not watering, he is not emotional! And if he naturally returns her hug, so what?
“Things will… be okay, Philia,” he soothes, holding her tightly as he shifts them through space to arrive in her glade. Achilles and Patroclus stand near the chamber door, paused by Death’s arrival. They rush to meet Thanatos, sobbing their thanks when he places Philia into their arms like a newborn babe.
“It’s no problem. If I can… ever help, if she ever needs anything, I will… help.” Thanatos feels every bit of how awkward he’s being, and it’s mortifying. “Goodbye.”
He vanishes before they can accept his kind offer.
A stark reminder of Philia’s pain remains. The brown of her skin has been near seared away where the rashes once burned, leaving five palm-colored, sun-shaped scars zigzagging down her back. Beautiful, in a way, but a deadly sign to her fathers that their impudence hasn’t been forgotten, that petty anger from a long-finished war was always ready to flash once again.
“It doesn’t hurt?” Patroclus frets once again, and Philia scoffs, slipping her dress back over her shoulders.
“No, Papa, it doesn’t hurt. Can I go, now? I haven’t seen Kai or played in forever!”
She’s huffy, impatient after so long spent miserable, and Patroclus can understand that. He still can’t help but hold her in place, kneeled down to her size.
“Just… let me look at you for a moment. I just need to know that you’re okay.”
Soon he won’t be able to kneel in front of her and look her in her eyes- where has the time gone? These hands, now wielding weapons confidently, once couldn’t even hold a spoon without his help. And why does the experience of overcoming such pain show in her expression; this isn’t a look he ever wanted to see on her. The mixture of pride and hurt is so strange, uplifting and yet nauseating. Her visage blurs: before he knows it, he’s crying. He tries to hide his face, but Philia already has his cloak in hand, wiping his tears away.
“Aw Papa, don’t cry, I’m okay!” she cries, holding his shoulder. “I always am, I’m strong! Everyone says so!”
“You shouldn’t have to be, Philia,” he murmurs. Strong children under the watch of Gods never boded well. He and Achilles had promised each other that they would do what they could to protect her no matter what, but it seems like every day is a challenge pulling back against the reins of fate just so she could have a happy childhood.
“Huh?” Philia cocks her head, confused. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Are you sure I can trust you to get to the House by yourself?”
“Yes!”
“And you’ll check in with your Daddy when you get there?”
“I will!”
“And you’re going to be careful with your knife and not play stupid games? No more risking stabbing fingers?”
Philia rolls her eyes- she and Kairos hadn’t lost any fingers. She’s fast and sharp enough not to stab their hands! But Eurydice had been horrified and nearly took off Achilles’ head, so they weren’t allowed to play that game anymore.
“Fiiiiine. But you said you and Daddy used to play it!”
Me and Daddy were stupid! “Just don’t do it anymore, please.” Patroclus stands, waving the way forward. “Have fun.” Before she leaves, he tugs the back of her collar, pointing at his cheek. Grinning, she spins around and gives him a kiss, before speeding out of the glade.