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English
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Published:
2025-12-04
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1,486
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1/1
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Pleased

Summary:

He got everything he wanted in a world where you had to suffer and take. Now he's in paradise and can't have the one thing he wants.

Notes:

Look. We all know Neo was a terrible person. But also he was TWELVE. He was brought to fight in Troy when he was an actual child. And let's not forget he was raised by THETIS? He was probably groomed to be a war criminal killing machine. Honestly reminds me of Azula. Plus he clearly idolized his father and said father did NOT care about his son and barely knew he existed (no hate tho we love you Achilles :)). So naturally we must have a Neo character study fic on his daddy issues. Enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

It’s his own damn fault. He doesn't want it to be true but it doesn't matter here, which isn't right because this is Elysium and he was a hero. He's the youngest hero. He's a hero. He is Aristos Achaion.

 

No, no he's not. His father is Aristos Achaion. His father would not be pleased if Pyrrhus took the title. Achilles wouldn't be pleased. Achilles isn't pleased.

 

Pyrrhus sees him, sometimes. When the fields deign to let them cross paths. He is always accompanied by that—that—

 

Stain, Thetis had called him.

 

He remembers it. The bewilderment of those men when he entered and announced himself Achilles' son.

 

"We were talking of your father's tomb, and where to build it."

 

"Your father and his companion. Patroclus."

 

He'd refused it. Later he'd spoken to his grandmother.

 

"Goddess, Grandmother. Who is Patroclus?"

 

Her lips had curled in distaste.

 

"Do not trouble yourself with him. He is a stain on your father's legacy. He is the reason your father would not regard you."

 

Achilles did not regard Pyrrhus's mother, either.

 

Pyrrhus had a single memory of his mother. His mind did not usually fail him, but all he could recall of her was a warm hand, and blonde hair with whispers of white, and echoes of her voice.

 

"Pyrrhus."

 

It was the only time he'd heard his name spoken with… warmth. She'd called his name with such fondness, her smile curving around the syllables and giving each one substance. Thetis never called to him that way. The goddess always said Pyrrhus with a sharp hiss, burning like the fire he was named for.

 

It was the only time Pyrrhus had ever been permitted to see his mother. Then the goddess took him in her arms and dove under the sea and that was that.

 

When he came to Troy, Pyrrhus wondered if Achilles would ever call out to him that way. Obviously by then Achilles was already dead and to have such thoughts was pitiful, so he never voiced them. But they never left him in peace. At best they would linger in the pits of his mind, humming, festering.

 

The worst was whenever Odysseus spoke. Pyrrhus didn't care for anyone, but him especially for this particular reason. They'd sit around a fire with the stars above them, and the other kings would speak of their homeland. Odysseus, however, he would speak of his wife and son. My son, my son. Telemachus. Always with that fondness, isolating each syllable and giving it a separate meaning.

 

It grew tiresome. Pyrrhus eventually began excusing himself when the conversation traveled that way.

 

He wonders now if Odysseus ever knew. Likely he did. They didn't call the Ithacan king polutropos for nothing. If he did he never mentioned it to Pyrrhus. And why would he? Achilles would not have spoken Pyrrhus's name like that. Pyrrhus was sure he'd never been the subject of a thought in the mind of Achilles.

 

Perhaps that is why he'd so ruthlessly taken the life of the infant. Not even he was so cruel, usually. In the case of children he'd just slit their throats. But when he'd come up on Andromache and her child, huddled in the corner, he grew angry. Not blood-fueled battlefield rage—this had burned white-hot in his chest and sloshed up his throat and he'd wanted to vomit. The child was cradled to its mother's chest so gently, even though she herself shook. So he snatched the infant from her arms and threw it down on the rocks. Its head shattered.

 

The only way to describe it would be wrath. Wrath, they said, killed his father. I am the son of Achilles, he'd thought, it is only fitting that his hamartia should be mine. Achilles is pleased.

 

It was not wrath that killed Pyrrhus. It was pride.

 

The war had ended, and some years later he had wanted Hermione. So he took her. So what if she was the bride of Orestes? If Pyrrhus wanted it, he should have it. That is what his grandmother had taught him, that is how heroes were treated. Why should Orestes have what Pyrrhus wanted?

 

Pyrrhus had died face-down with a spear in his back.

 

He'd almost been surprised when he'd stumbled forward and his feet had found the golden grasses of Elysium. But he'd overcome it quickly—of course he would be in a hero's paradise. He was a hero, was he not?

 

He'd sought out his father. Achilles was on a stone in front of a lake. Upon first seeing him, Pyrrhus had thought that the paintings on urns did not do justice to the warrior before him. His hair, golden, had seemed to shimmer in the Elysian sun. The scars that ran along his shoulders and arms revealed more than carvings ever could. But somehow he'd seemed unhappy, despite where they were.

 

It doesn't matter, Pyrrhus had thought, soon he will be pleased.

 

Pyrrhus came to him and stood up straight.

 

"Father," he'd said, "I am your son, Neoptolemus. Pyrrhus. I have brought the downfall of Troy and honor to your name."

 

Achilles's face had only grown stonier.

 

"You have only disrespected my wishes and spread lies of what I desired," he'd sneered.

 

Something in Pyrrhus's chest had gone cold.

 

"You are not pleased?" He'd sounded like a child when he'd asked. His voice had shaken. It was pathetic.

 

"Do not act as if you know me or what pleases me. I would be happy if Patroclus were here and you have ensured that will never happen."

 

Something had dropped in his stomach and his legs had moved before he could make the decision.

 

Even when giving Pyrrhus such an enervating dressing-down, Achilles had still—

 

Pa-tro-clus.

 

Why had he said Patroclus's name like that? Achilles had been bitter, but for just that name, just for those three syllables—why did he sound like Odysseus speaking of his son, or even Pyrrhus's own mother, all those years ago?

 

I want you to say my name like that. Why won't you?

 

Pyrrhus had found himself under an olive tree. He'd sunk to his knees.

 

Why should Patroclus have gotten the privilege of Achilles calling out to him that way and not Pyrrhus? Pyrrhus was his son.

 

Would he have, if Pyrrhus had put Patroclus's name on the tomb under Achilles's?

 

No, that couldn't possibly be the case. It couldn't possibly have been Pyrrhus's fault. Patroclus didn't deserve it. Pyrrhus did. He wanted it, so he should have it. He should.

 

Why didn't he?

He sits.

 

Laughter rings in his ears and he moves away. He is accustomed to the sound here, but he doesn't partake. He tells himself it's because he dislikes the company of others.

 

He climbs a tree. Across the lake he can just see the dots of his father and Patroclus, and he wonders if it would have been better to stay on the ground.

 

The day Patroclus had finally come, all of Elysium seemed to glow. Achilles had shouted his name in joy, over and over, and Pyrrhus thought he'd rather never hear again.

 

He slips off the branch and lies back in the shadow of the leaves. He closes his eyes. As much as he doesn't want it to be true, the dead don't sleep.

 

Behind his eyelids, images come—white-blonde wisps, soft hands. A smile enveloping his name.

 

"Pyrrhus."

 

He shakes his head, listens for it again.

 

"Pyrrhus."

 

"Pyrrhus."

 

Somehow the her voice sounds more distorted each time he reaches for the memory. The fondness is the same, but the voice changes. Could it have been so long that he does not truly remember its cadence anymore? Impossible. His memory has never failed him. He wants to remember her. He can have at least that much.

 

I have had nothing I wanted, don't deny me this…

 

"Pyrrhus."

 

His eyes snap open. He was not thinking of his mother that time.

 

"Pyrrhus, here."

 

He rolls his head to the side. Patroclus is there, sitting by him like it is the most natural thing in the world. Pyrrhus is sure they look starkly different—Patroclus has allowed the grandeur of Elysium to sink into his skin. Pyrrhus is sullen.

 

Patroclus says nothing else, only offers a hand.

 

What do you want? he wants to ask. Why are you here? Why do you call out to me like that?

 

"You do not know me," he snaps.

 

"I do not," Patroclus replies.

 

He doesn't retract his hand.

 

Pyrrhus thinks of the last time he refused Patroclus something he'd wanted.

 

"Does my father want me?" he asks. What a desperate and pathetic question, but he is no longer past that.

 

Again, no reply.

 

"Come with me, Pyrrhus."

 

And perhaps it is the way that the voice does not belong to his mother yet doesn't differ from the way it's said, but Pyrrhus does not refuse.

Notes:

thanks so much for reading! Kudos/comments are always appreciated :P