Chapter Text
Philia hits the ground, her vision blurry after the last blow.
“Pay attention, girl, and stop running!”
I am, she wants to cry, the menace in Pyrrhus’ voice leaving no room for error. Yesterday, she dodged to the left, and he met her with a breath-stealing punch to the throat. Today, she can try moving to the right. She just has to make it until-
He swings, and she dodges, and the shield lands. Yes! She sprints for it, waiting for the clash.
It doesn’t happen. What? Why not?
She peeks over the edge- the space is empty, the vastness of Asphodel pitch black. Only the bright Phlegethon flows around the outcropping of rock that forms their battlefield. Pyrrhus’ voice echoes in the darkness.
“I will admit, this is the first time I’ve had a real challenge. It’s like I can feel my blood pumping once again. Though, what a scene it makes. The son of Achilles, trained amongst gods, molded by war. Versus you, a bastard that was blessed enough to be trained by him.”
Philia swallows her anger, rising.
“Come out, Pyrrhus! I’ve already defeated you, I keep defeating you, and I’ll-”
“And yet you keep having this dream, girl.”
Philia slaps the shield in impatience and aggression, over and over, the noise crashing around her. “Get out here! I’m not afraid of you!”
Her voice only wavers a little- she’s not afraid! She isn’t!
“Oh really?”
Philia’s heart constricts so painfully that she nearly drops the shield. She grips her chest as she turns around, injured by the renewed malevolence in Pyrrhus’ voice.
Except, it isn’t Pyrrhus.
The new contender steps out from the darkness. Green eyes, not grey. Taller, sturdier, his posture light while dripping with every ounce of arrogance that his son could ever manage. Achilles kicks her knife towards her- she’d never even noticed it wasn’t in her sheath.
“Pick it up.”
“Daddy,” Philia cows, goosebumps rippling over her body. “Daddy, you don’t have to do this.”
“Daddy, you don’t have to do this,” Achilles mocks, sneering. “Pathetic. How could you be my progeny and you’re afraid to fight?”
“I’m not afraid! But- You told me I didn’t have to fight if I didn’t want to,” she pleads, stepping away as he starts to move forward. “And I don’t want to fight you like this, Daddy, please-”
“Pick it up!” His tone leaves no room for argument, and Philia races forward to snatch the knife. Just as she grabs it, Achilles stomps on the shield. Philia barely braces for impact, expecting Achilles to jump away from the resulting shockwave. Instead, with hardly a breath, he uses his foot to tip the shield up, gripping it and frisbeeing it away from her. Terrified, Philia jumps away, quaking as she lifts the knife.
“Daddy, please don’t make me hurt you,” she whispers. Achilles’ eyes flash with excitement, a chilling smile on his face.
“That’s exactly what I want to see you do.”
He charges forward, his chest completely open. All Philia has to do is swing down, connect the knife to the open base of his throat.
All Philia has to do is-
Is-
Achilles lifts Philia under her throat, snatching the knife from her hand before slamming her onto the ground. The impact shocks the remaining wind out of her, and she struggles to breathe. This doesn’t normally go this way. Pyrrhus has never become this before. Why- why-
“Pathetic,” he repeats, looking bored as he tilts the knife side to side. Philia blinks through burning tears.
“You’re not my real father,” she croaks, clawing at his grasp. “He’s always been proud of me.”
Achilles laughs- a full throated, disheartening, malicious laugh that drains all of Philia’s hope like a sieve. She goes limp, both from oxygen loss and heartbreak. Satisfied, Achilles presses the sharp blade to her throat.
“You reek of fear. Here,” he whispers. “Let me show you what happens to the weak.”
He pulls.
Her bloodcurdling scream shocks Philia awake, her pounding heart crashing with its echo in her ears. Without hesitation she leaps from bed, tosses open her window and hurdles out of it. I can’t take it anymore, she sobs as she races to the Lethe. How long is this going to torment me, how long must I suffer, I’m so tired, I can’t-
The frigid waters shock her out of her thoughts, quickly soaking the ends of her blonde curls. Randomly, she wonders how the river can feel so full as it batters against her, but looks like such a fine, harmless mist. No matter. It won’t matter soon- nothing will. She scoops two hands full when a pair of arms slaps the water down, wraps around her, and drags her up the bank.
“No,” she screams, kicking and flailing in their grasp. “No! Put me down, put me down! Stop it!”
“No! You might lose more than you realize! At least let’s talk about it first- Philia, calm down!”
It isn’t until she’s out of the riverbank’s reach that she can see her captor. Philia blanches at her father’s face with a wail, shivering so miserably that Achilles starts to rub her arms.
“Philia,” he pleads. “Breathe!”
“I- I can’t-” she gasps, hyperventilating. “I can’t, I can’t-”
“It’s just me,” he reassures her, smiling. His kind smile doesn’t last for long when Philia only sobs harder.
“That doesn’t make me feel any better! I don’t know, I don’t know! I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m so weak, Daddy, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t, and it keeps bothering me and I don’t know why and-”
Patroclus adjusts the thick blanket, tucking it back under Philia’s feet. Humming, Achilles offers him an exhausted smile in thanks. He thumbs Philia’s shoulder, her head on his knee. Her expression is fitful as she rests, pulling her companion tight to her chest. Patroclus sits on the other couch, sighing.
“You haven’t hummed this lullaby since she was at least six,” he quietly comments.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Achilles admits, hand covering his mouth as he remembers her ramblings. “She was inconsolable. I think- I think this time, she saw me in her nightmare.”
They’d been scared shitless when Philia’s disturbing scream woke them. It had taken a panicked Achilles a single glimpse of Philia’s open window and empty bed to realize what was happening. Calming her down had been a strange battle of her panicking because of his presence, and clutching tight to him anyway until her tears sent her back to sleep.
“How many is that?” whispers Patroclus.
“I’ve lost count. It’s every time she closes her eyes. I’m just relieved that she seems to be getting some rest right now.”
Patroclus nods in agreement. Both of them have seen the effects of war on men. No one left unscathed unless they were already cruel or mad when they arrived. It would be foolish to think that Philia would be any different. Despite being the victor of her lone battle, it haunted her every step. Not even the Queen’s exciting news seemed to bring her anything beyond temporary peace and excitement. Instead Philia trained, eyes dead as she pushed herself harder and harder, sometimes falling asleep right in the middle. Whatever progress she felt she made while awake showed its prowess in her vivid nightmares. Achilles and Patroclus worried as she dragged herself to the kitchen to pick at her food, eyes bloodshot as she muttered how this particularly gruesome battle changed, and how her strategy would adapt. It was the only thing she would speak about, if she spoke to them at all.
“This is the first time that it was you, I think.”
“I wish it would be the only time that it was me. I wish it never happened at all. I-” Achilles pauses, overwhelmed with misery. “I never wanted Philia to fear me like this. That’s why I didn’t- it’s why I wasn’t ready to-”
“Okay, Achilles, breathe for a second,” Patroclus soothes. “Look. She knows now. We can’t take that back. Right now, what we need to do is figure out how to help her better heal from this.”
“How?!” Achilles hisses, rubbing his eyes. “We didn’t exactly heal either! We spent an eternity down here until we could see each other again. We had each other to make things better! What am I supposed to say?”
“I-” I don’t know. Achilles spoke harshly, as he does, but as always… it’s true. They hadn’t healed from war after returning home. They didn’t have the privilege. The only thing they could think to offer was time and love, and neither was consolation to the acutely suffering. He pities the men that did live with the horrors of the past and their wives and families who had to witness it, who had to remind them that they were safe when their minds inevitably drifted into it.
Achilles sighs at Patroclus’ sad expression, holding out his hand. Patroclus grips it, and Achilles squeezes tight.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just- I’m struggling with myself. I’m containing it, but I’m furious. I’m furious that Neoptolemus would hurt Philia, would make her believe that I would ever hurt her. I don’t ever want to hurt my child. But if I storm to where he is and show him what happens when someone hurts my daughter-”
“Then you’ll be hurting your son.”
“I just don’t know how to approach him. Not after so long. Not after what I’ve done. Hell, not after what he’s done, especially in my name. I already carried enough sins to the grave.” Achilles huffs, agitated. “Well. I’m not the top priority right now. What are we going to do about her? If her pain is such that she feels the need to drink from the Lethe, I need to move faster.”
Philia shifts, hiding her face under the blanket.
Calix is going to be sick.
His mother’s brown eyes are glued to the table, wide with horror as she recounts the fall of Troy. His power has to have worn off by now- surely, she couldn’t still be going, the story couldn’t continue to get worse and worse- right? Across from her, his father sits stiffly, still pained by everything he’s already heard. Andromache’s breath hitches when she tells of the man that particularly tormented her- the son (son!)- of Achilles, Pyrrhus.
“He snatched Astyanax, and he- he bashed his head against the stone of the wall, before- before throwing him off the side-” Andromache covers her mouth, an old scream lingering in her throat.
He should have told her to stop there. He should have asked her- demanded her- to stop. But he’s frozen, unsure of what to do. It is only when Andromache mentions that she was forcibly taken to Pyrrhus’ camp that Calix shakes his head.
“Mom, you can stop,” he whimpers, holding out a hand to her. Andromache smacks it away, tears falling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t know, I shouldn’t have- Dad, maybe she should-”
“You listen to your mother.”
Calix blanches. It’s the coldest, most furious tone he’s ever heard from his father.
“But Dad, I-”
“No,” Hector repeats, eyes searing. “You wanted to be such a man; you wanted to force people to do you what you want. Now you will listen to her suffering.”
If the devastation of what happened to his kingdom, his people, his family wasn’t enough, it only takes a small amount of the rest of Andromache’s story to finish Calix. He pushes away from the table, sending the chair to the ground in the process.
“Stop. I don’t want to hear anymore. Please.”
Hector immediately rises, rushing over to hold Andromache. She covers her eyes in his chest, exhausted.
“Apologize to your mother.”
Calix has never known his father to have his power of persuasion, yet he can rarely defy an order to his face. A man that should have been a king, truly. He wouldn’t have refused him anyway.
“Mom, I’m so sorry,” Calix whispers, desperate. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I was wrong. And I- I understand if you don’t forgive me right now.”
He understands, but he still hopes. Andromache sighs, turning just enough to give one long, tired eye to her son.
“I need some rest,” is all she finally says. Her voice is soft, but still filled with disappointment, and Calix’ breath leaves him, he’s so hurt. He turns to Hector, pleading for forgiveness, to no avail. It is not a lack of love that caused such hurt. It feels like swallowing knives, but Calix bows his head- he knows he’s been dismissed for now, and he flees.
He’s not sure where he’s going. As always, he finds himself wandering the grounds, desolate. Hatred of his parents’ disappointment turns into a hatred of himself, and that hatred for himself quickly spirals into hatred for the Greeks. How could they do such a thing? Didn’t they have families? Did taking something that wasn’t theirs mean that much? Damn Odysseus and that fucking horse! Damn Diomedes, damn Agamemnon, damn Menelaus, damn Helen-
Damn Patroclus, damn Achilles-
Damn Pyrrhus, the child of Achilles.
Child of Achilles.
Oh no, Calix wails to himself, falling to his knees. I don’t even want to think about that, it’s too many thoughts!
It should be easy to hate Philia now. She rejected his feelings, even rejected his friendship. Their relationship is in tatters. After hearing of her fathers’ sins, of her fatherland’s sins, it should be easy to despise her. And yet, he cannot get himself to do it. His stupid heart battles with his mind. Who cares if she didn’t do it- someone should pay for this! If no one else should pay for their crimes against his family, against humanity, it should be the families of Odysseus and Achilles. And since he has no idea where Odysseus is or what he looks like, it all comes down to who he can find.
He tries to imagine himself fighting with Philia to the death. Of reaching his hands around her neck and strangling the life out of her. It pains him, the thought of her tears, of her misery. Of the expression she’d make as she realized who was once one of her closest friends wanted her dead. He feels sorry even for the thought. But what can he do? What is he supposed to do? How can he make any of this better? Killing Achilles? Achilles was already dead prior to the horse, and there was already that complicated cycle of violence involving their fathers. They had already decided to bypass that by avoiding one another in the afterlife, but Calix yearns for more than that. That can’t be the only answer. There’s only one left.
He looked exactly like his brute of a father was the only mildly objective statement his mother had made about Pyrrhus. So… his goal was finding someone who looked like Achilles. In all of Asphodel or Elysium, maybe even Tartarus if the gods were fair. It’s… a start. Calix rises to his feet, looking back towards the palace. The shades in his parents’ room are closed, indicating that they were resting for the time being. They don’t want to see me anyway, he reasons, regretful.
They might though, if he comes home with glorious news, or at least Pyrrhus’ blood on his blade. And if not, he’ll feel somewhat better.
With nothing but time and determination on his hands, Calix retrieves his bow and knife and then leaves the grove, searching until he finds Charon’s boat on the river. He holds out two gold coins.
“Take me to Tartarus please, Uncle Charon.”
Steam hisses from Charon’s nose as he growls his disagreement. Calix pulls out four more gold coins. “I’ll triple the offer.”
The gleaming orbs in Charon’s sockets roll, and he takes the money. Calix knows he’s going to tattle, but it’s no matter. Someone ought to know where he is. He sits in the boat for the long journey, the bright jungles of Elysium fading into the hot, molten lavas of Asphodel. He’s never been to Tartarus, and everyone had warned him against it. Even Uncle Zagreus, one of the bravest, boldest people he knew, had shook his head when asked.
It’s not a pleasant place; dismal, desolate, and cruel. I’m not sure if everyone who is there deserves to suffer eternally, though in my younger, miserable days of paper pushing I read plenty of reasons why some would. I’ve met a good person there, though I’d say he was an outlier. Than fully disagrees with me. Anyway, I certainly wouldn’t want to spend my eternity there, mate. Elysium’s a much better bet.
Calix stiffens when they reach the gates to Tartarus, a shiver running up his spine when they pass into the realm. Zagreus hadn’t exaggerated- there was a constant moan of misery carrying in the stillness, the air uncomfortably thick and dusty as though a window needed to be opened. The green flames of hellfire lick up from the cracks in the stone, though none of it affects the slight chill. Shades beg for mercy and release. Charon even smacks a stray shade off the side of the boat with merciless whip of his paddle. Finally they stop, and Charon gestures off.
Calix lightly steps off, bowing. “I know you’re going to tell someone, so just… give me a head start?”
Charon growls, folding his arms and planting himself at the dock. That’s confirmation enough.
Five chambers full of desperate shades and terrifying monsters later, Calix thinks he may have underestimated this adventure. His energy is low, and he’s covered in wounds that he’s yet to find a healing pool for. Uncle Charon could have sold me something, he pouts. Probably wanted to teach me a lesson. Jokes on him- Calix is willing to die on this hill! He’s got nothing but time- just like Uncle Zag!
He mentally crosses his fingers as he enters the next room, praying that the exclamation sign on the rock above it didn’t mean it was going to be something too bad. An uncomfortable silence greets him when he enters the room, but there’s no monsters, so he sighs in relief.
“Someone…”
The low, breathless whisper sends yet another chill up Calix’ spine, and he nocks his arrow in suspicion. The flames blasting from the walls are enough to reveal the lone occupant of this dark prison. A thin, filthy man is chained to the wall, the long, grungy chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles. The clanking gets closer and closer, and just when he thinks the strange man is going to reach him, the chains go taut. The man falls, the light revealing his face.
Despite an eternity languishing in such a foul place, the face remains beautiful. Hazel eyes with full lashes, an aristocratic nose, full, cupid’s bow lips, a sharp jaw, with brown curly hair to his chin. They don’t look exactly alike, and yet he can see his father’s blood within this man. Calix knows that if this man smiles, he could snatch the heart of many a lover of men. Unfortunately, all he does now is cling to reality.
“Paris,” he whispers. Paris twitches at his name, lashes fluttering.
“Yes,” he whispers back, voice silky soft. “That’s my name. Paris. Alexander. Of Troy. Yes. That’s who I am. Who are you?”
“Um. I’m- Calix.”
Paris snorts, his smile bordering on a maw. “Our names are similar. Are we similar in other ways?”
I should hope not, but I feel like we are, and I don’t want to think about that so I’m going to go- Calix slightly turns towards the light, intent on fleeing, when something clicks in Paris’ expression.
“Hector. No. You’re Hector. Brother. Brother, you’ve finally come for me!” Relief- no, exultation- saturates his words.
“No…” Calix holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not.”
“After all this time you’ve forgiven me! Release me, so we can go.”
Paris holds up his wrists. Calix looks down at the chains, then back up. Even if he was Hector, he’s not sure how he would accomplish this without a key or a really heavy blade. Not to mention, him travelling through the realms is one thing, but releasing an inmate? Grandpa Hades would have his neck. When he doesn’t move, Paris’ grin falls into confusion.
“What are you doing? Let me out of here.”
Paris’ confusion then falls into a vicious annoyance, his nostrils flaring. When he turns his nose up, his eyes become hooded with shadow. It’s a terrifying expression. Paris surges forward until he’s once again yanked back by the force of the chains. Calix leaps backward, charging for the door.
“RELEASE ME!”
Calix’ gorge rises as his legs twist, moving on their own back towards his uncle.
“ReleasemeReleasemeReleasemeReleasemeReleasemeReleaseme-”
Calix fights against his body, overcome with fear.
“Shut up!” he screams, and Paris is cut off mid-command. “Stop it!”
Both of them fall to the ground, gasping for breath. Calix has never been compelled before. It had never occurred to him just how… uncomfortable it would feel, having his body and mind moved by a puppeteer. Worst of all, he recognizes that Paris’ power is weaker than his.
He’s so horrified at this new revelation that he doesn’t realize that Paris stands over him. With an animalistic roar, a mad Paris lunges for Calix, wrapping the chains around his neck and pulling tight. It’s a slow, painful death, strangulation, and Calix is starting to lose consciousness when a crack of a whip sends Paris flying into the back wall. Coughing blood, Calix scoots away from the chains.
“Well, well, well, another red blood where he shouldn’t be,” Alecto purrs. “And it’s a family reunion, too! How cute.” With an easy flick, she pulls a lever that yanks the chains tight onto the wall, leaving Paris spreadeagle on the cold stone. “Aren’t you lucky today, Paris? A visitor! I’m a little jealous.”
“Release me you foul woman! I’ve done nothing wrong! All I did was love! I-”
“Blah, blah, blah! I’m so bored of this conversation. Love. Passion. Fury for crimes of passion. You belong here. Shut up before I shove some more demon guts back in your mouth.”
Paris thrashes pointlessly while Alecto turns to a struggling Calix, with his bow fully drawn.
“Oh, you’re adorable. I’ve been yearning for a fight lately. Zagreus is my favorite, but I can practice with a little toy like you.”
In the back of his mind, Calix feels like that’s inappropriate. Alecto leans into an offensive stance when someone lands between them.
“Auntie Meg,” he breathes, relieved to see a friendly face. Alecto rolls her eyes.
“He’s not even worth it. I’ll fight you for Zag any day, though. Go ahead, ‘Auntie Meg’.”
Megaera doesn’t say a word. She only death grips Calix’ shoulder and marches him away. It’s only when they reach Charon’s boat, and she wordlessly hands him a pommy treat, when Calix finally feels brave enough to speak.
“Thank you for the help?”
“Don’t make it a habit. It was bad enough when there was one suicidal maniac running around.”
Calix blinks. “Oh! Oh no, I wasn’t suicidal, I just-”
“Wanted answers?” Megaera gives him a knowing look.
Calix is undaunted. “Then answer me this. Why is he the one in Tartarus? I know by taking Helen he technically kicked off the whole war, but- there were other factors at play. Why not Agamemnon? Would he have not tried to sack Troy anyway? Or Odysseus, as his plan led to the downfall of my kingdom. And yet, I’ve heard they all rest in peace.”
Megaera ponders over how to best deliver this answer, one many suffering men have asked in many different ways about the conflicts they were caught up in. In the end, she just decides to be blunt- the children know her well enough.
"Fame and fortune favor the winner, Calix. Time had to find someone to blame. If things were fair, it would have been Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite for using Paris to solve one of their petty squabbles. Perhaps it would have been Eris, for instigating. Perhaps even Zeus, since the entire thing stemmed from his fear of patricide. Instead, since history rewards the victors...the blame fell to Paris. Such is the fate of humans, to suffer consequences in the end."
It's unjust, and Calix hates it.
“Whatever your reason for traipsing into Tartarus was, I firmly suggest you don’t do it again. Just because you three have been given the ability to run around, doesn’t mean everyone will allow you to. There’s nothing for you in the depths of hell, so whatever you’re searching for, search elsewhere. Also. You’ve been gone much longer than you think. Your father asked us to give you the space to decompress, but it’s time for you to go home.”
It’s her way of chastising him while telling him she cares. He’s always found her bluntness refreshing, and he gently smiles at her.
“Thanks, Auntie Meg.” But I’m not finished yet.
Megaera only waves her hand with a hum, shooing him into the House when they arrive. The hustle and bustle of the main hall is always relaxing, the mess hall a welcoming scene. He’s about to sit and figure out a new plan when a glimpse of blonde passes his eye. Achilles is making his way back from the mess hall to his post in the quieter west wing, politely greeting everyone he passes.