#pjo dionysus
Dionysus: Okay, first I’d like to introduce our new camper, Percy, and I’d like to thank Percy for his generous gift of two dollars, which he handed me outside this morning. Not necessary, but much appreciated.
Annabeth: why’d you give him two dollars?
Percy: I thought he was homeless
Fandom: Trials of Apollo
Rating:Gen
Genre:Family
Characters: Apollo, Austin Lake, Will Solace, Kayla Knowles, Apollo CabinYou know those days where everything goes wrong no matter what you do? Today was one such day. To begin with, anyway.
For some timeline clarification, this fic is set in 2012. Don’t ask me what I’m doing back in first person Apollo pov again because I don’t know. Clearly I wanted to torment myself for a while.
Reminder that there’s now a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi!
You know those days where everything keeps going wrong – your little brother steals the keys to your sun chariot, so you’re late with dawn because he’s a twisted little scamp that makes you run all over Olympus on a scavenger hunt before it transpires that he hid them in the chariot the whole time (they were in the cupholder) and your father gets mad at you for being lax in your responsibilities even though it wasn’t your fault, then your lyre gets a snapped string and your spare one also breaks, and just to add insult to injury, one of your current favourite mortal singers dies?
Yes,those days. Horrible things that would make a lesser individual buckle and snap under the unfairness of life, or at least burst into uncontrollable tears once in the safety of your own domain where no-one else gets to spy on you (I, personally, did not cry, but when I heard the news about Brian Hibbard there might have been a wail of despair). That was the sort of day I was having, so when Austin’s prayer floated into my awareness, I was both ecstatic and also feeling woefully inadequate for whatever it was my son wanted.
Dad, his prayer began (I call them prayers because that is, functionally, what they are, but really it’s more akin to a one-sided phone call that I let my kids make whenever they like – Iris complains at me because it deprives her of the drachma they ought to be spending, even though demigods tend not to use drachma to communicate with gods anyway, but I prefer that they aren’t worrying about whether or not they can affordto talk to me. Regular communication is difficult enough between gods and mortals anyway, even when those mortals are our own children). Could you drop by camp sometime today? It’d be great to see you.
I wish I could say that the call filled me with absolute joy – after all, my son wanted to see me, what could be more joyous than that? – but with the day I had, so far, been having, I am ashamed to admit that the request filled me with some degree of dread. You see, my children do not tend to request my presence. This is in no way their fault; I have never made it blatant that I will come if they do so I assume they follow the unspoken warning and don’t set themselves up for disappointment when I inevitably fail to appear sometimes, but it does mean that on the rare occasions I am directly requested, there is seemingly always something rather catastrophic going on.
(I try not to think of the aftermath of Will and Nico’s sojourn into Tartarus, and the desperate screaming that had filled my awareness as my younger children tried desperately to keep their brother and his boyfriend from slipping back into the Underworld for good.)
With the way my day had been going so far, despite the non-urgency of both Austin’s words and tone, my heart leaped straight into my throat.
Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to visit Camp Half-Blood unless I have godly business there, and with Dionysus filling the role of resident god, it is very difficult to find business that would necessitate my dropping in (my younger brother might find his punishment grating, not that I can fault him for that, but it has also been rather a source of discontent for me, too – after all, if we’re being technical about it, I am the god of Camp Half-Blood. It wouldn’t exist if not for me, you know! But for as long as Dionysus is there, father frowns very heavily on any other gods dropping by – even Hermes has to keep his delivery times brief to avoid a stern lecture and that’s him genuinely doing one of his jobs). However, since the events of last year, Dionysus is a little less openly hostile in my direction and as long as I endure a game or few of pinochle and his smug grin as he thrashes my godly behind every time, he does not make a fuss if I drop by for a little while, every so often.
I split off a fragment of myself and reappeared at the border of the camp, giving Peleus the berth he demands from where he resides as always around the base of the pine tree that holds the golden fleece. From there, I made my way, as low-key as it is possible to be when you’re me, into the camp proper, tracking down my children.
None of them were in the infirmary, to my delight. There’s almost always at least one of them on duty there during the day, so it made a nice change for the infirmary to be deserted (and no, it was no deserted because they were busy dealing with a patient in the field – my godly healing senses could pick up no hint of serious injury, nor could I spy any signs of distress in the demigods as I approached the main pavilion. In fact, some of the demigods seemed to be rather excited).
The residents of cabin ten – Aphrodite’s children – seemed to be particularly vibrant, buzzing with the same sort of energy I had seen from their godly mother far too many times to be particularly comfortable with. Do not underestimate the whims of that goddess, or her children – they are things to be treated with a very healthy level of respect. Further into camp, I could also see some of Demeter’s children gently tending to plants and creating bouquets (Meg was not in their number – I knew this for a fact because she was back in Aeithales; I had spent yesterday attempting to teach her the fine art of piano playing. She is an enthusiastic student, but her fingers have not yet developed the unique sort of flexibility required to do more than basic scales), while some of Athena’s brood seemed to be bartering with Connor Stoll over something I should probably make an effort not to listen to.
Of my own children, there were no sign. The Me Cabin, with its gloriously shining golden exterior, was completely devoid of demigods, and I will admit the panic started to climb up once more. Where were my children? The archery range and amphitheatre likewise came up empty, and when I found myself at the lake, staring out at the water with none of my kids in sight, I started to feel a little frantic.
In hindsight, I should have simply followed the signal of Austin’s prayer to the source, but at the time I had seen no need to do so – the camp was not that large, and he had specifically mentioned it so they would not be elsewhere – a mistake I was now paying for. That is not to say, however, that I have no method of locating my children (what sort of a god would I be if I couldn’t find a few mortals when I pleased?) but the unexpectedness of none of my children being anywhere predictable was rather disconcerting.
“Are you losing your touch or do you simply enjoy running around on a wild goose chase?” a voice asked from behind me. I span around to see my brother there, lounging against a tree with a can of diet coke in his hand. Dionysus took a lazy swig of the drink and rolled his eyes. “You might want to try the arts and crafts cabin,” he continued, sending me a look that could only be considered amused.
That is not necessarily a good look on any god, and certainly not when aimed in my direction. Artemis is particularly fond of it, usually as an accompaniment to a kick me sign on my back, and I saw it just this morning in Hermes’ eyes before he led me on his merry goose chase after my sun chariot’s keys. On Dionysus, well, the last time I’d seen a look quite like that, it was 1709 and it turned out that the Maenads were on their way to crash one of my concerts. Hehad found that amusing; Ihad found it really rather irritating.
Considering my children were the presumed topic of conversation, as well as the sort of day I’d had so far, this did not help to put me at ease at all – rather the opposite, in fact.
“Don’t bother joining me for pinochle today,” my brother continued, still looking far too amused – rather like a leopard who had got the cream, although that is not a combination that I would ever recommend, either. “You won’t be worth my time. I’ll put an afternoon of games on your tab, instead.”
With that rather alarming proclamation – I could never defeat Dionysus at pinochle, why did he believe that today of all days I would be boring to thrash when none of my siblings ever passed up a chance to do so – he disappeared in a flash of purple.
Having no better lead, I reluctantly followed his advice and made my way to the arts and crafts cabin, ducking inside to finally locate all of my children sat around one of the tables, chattering away to each other. Austin had golden paint smudged on his cheek and seemed to be trying to smear more of the substance on Kayla’s face while the others laughed at them both.
Will was the first to notice me; he lit up (not literally, which was slightly disappointing because I always love seeing him glow) and a huge smile graced his face. “Dad!”
Immediately, I was set upon by a stampede of young demigods, which was easily the best thing that had happened to me so far that day (although even if I had had any other positive experiences, it would still have been top of the list; my children are amazing like that).
“Hello, hello,” I responded, before greeting each of them individually. It transpired that Austin was not the only one with paint streaked somewhere on their person – all of them had something, somewhere, although Will’s smudge of gold on his forehead looked suspiciously like a deliberate sun rather than a haphazard accident or by-product of a sibling paint war.
Not one of them seemed surprised to see me, which told me that Austin had likely been the spokesperson for all of them with his prayer, rather than it being something specifically from him. I was a little surprised that it hadn’t been Will, as the head of the cabin, but that was far from a complaint – I love hearing from any of my children.
“What have you guys been making?” I asked them once the relevant greetings and updates were exchanged (Kayla had managed to increase her range by another ten metres since we’d last spoken, Austin’s channel had gained another thousand intelligent people with good taste – I mean, subscribers). “Austin, I take it you know you have paint on your cheek.” Certainly, I wanted to know what had prompted them to summon me, but I feared that if I asked that outright, they might think that I was only there because I had been called (which was true, admittedly, but only because that had given me a tangible excuse to drop by and not because I had felt obligated), so I refrained from giving voice to that particular question.
“Oh, I know,” Austin grinned in response. His body moved a little jerkily, and Will yelped, before glowering at his brother. Presumably, a foot had just made contact with a shin under the table, although why, I was not sure.
Then Will picked up the conversation, and I realised it was Austin insisting that he take point on the topic – perhaps the reason I had been called. The fact that they seemed to have elected a spokesperson for the job, and that said spokesperson was their eldest brother and head counsellor, did not fill me with much confidence. Dionysus’ smug expression and his insinuation that I wouldn’t be worth his time after seeing my children today flickered through my mind and I felt my smile waver slightly.
Will’s words turned the smile into a look of confusion. “Dad, do you know what today is?” he asked me. There was something hidden in his words, and my mind was too abuzz with sudden doomscrolling to be able to pick up on the exact nature of it.
I did, however, know the date. One of those little things that comes with being the reason the sun rises every morning (well, one of the reasons; pesky astrophysics). “June the seventeenth,” I answered, puzzled. “Or Sunday, if you’re after the day of the week. Why?” What was so important about that? Aside from it being the day the world lost the voice of Brian Hibbard (a true tragedy).
My children all gave me expectant looks, as though I had not given the answer they were after, and I wracked my brain to try and think of what other answer I could give. It wasn’t the solstice – that, and the boring yet compulsory council that went along with it, was in four days’ time. Nor was it any of my children’s birthdays… was it? I did a hurried mental inventory of all the birthdays of my children, just to be sure I wasn’t forgetting one (it would be just my luck, the way today has gone so far), and then their mortal parents’, too, just to be sure, but no, all birthdays were firmly stored in my mental calendar and June the seventeenth was completely empty. No forgotten birthday.
Will reached over to a nearby shelf and picked up a small box. It was messily wrapped in shiny gold paper and tied off with a sky-blue ribbon complete with smiley sun motifs. Exactly my aesthetic, as my children knew well, but that didn’t stop my brain screeching to a halt as it was held out to me.
From the way it was wrapped, it had to be a present. Only presents got wrapped like that, and as I looked closer I could see a golden gift tag blending in with the wrapping paper.
Was it my birthday? No, no it wasn’t. Well, technically when translated into the Gregorian calendar it was only a couple of weeks away, but it wasn’t like I ever expected anything from my children, if they even knew when it was, (or anyone else, for that matter), so that was rather a moot point anyway.
Clearly, I was supposed to be accepting it, whatever it was for, so with a glance at all the bright, expectant faces of my children, I took the small box from Will. It was a little heavier than it looked – not heavy,by any means, but weighty enough to be certain there was something inside, rather than an empty box (not that I would ever accuse my children of giving me fake gifts, but with Hermes as a brother I have developed something of a suspicious countenance when it comes to unexpected presents). With one finger, I flipped up the tag to find Dad in beautiful penmanship (Jerry’s, if I was not mistaken), followed by lots of love from and all of my children’s names in their own handwritings.
I blinked at it, not comprehending what I was seeing.
Will came to my rescue. “Open it,” he coaxed, smiling brightly at me. His siblings all crowded around the two of us, their faces remaining expectant, and I was left with no choice but to lightly tug at the ribbon. It unravelled easily, coming away in my hands as the paper unfurled, no longer held in place. The box that was revealed was plain, and if I didn’t miss my guess, was not being used in its original capacity, but rather as a useful method of simplifying the wrapping process.
I opened the box and could not stop my jaw from dropping in an astonished gape as I caught sight of the contents.
It was a mug – slightly misshapen in that way homemade crockery can be if not made by a professional – which by itself was an astounding gift. No-one ever gave me mugs; technically, as a god, I didn’t need them, so I supposed that made sense. Nectar came in vials or glasses, so it wasn’t like I had any real use for a mug when hot beverages tended not to cross my palate (unless, of course, I was out on a date in the mortal world, in which case the mugs were provided for me).
However, it was not just a mug. It was golden, no doubt the same gold I could see decorating my children’s skin (and hair, in Yan’s case; it stood out strikingly against their naturally dark locks) prior to being glazed, but that was not what had my eyes flooding.
#1 DAD was picked out in red, in Jerry’s calligraphic penmanship. On the other side of the mug, banishing any doubts about who the words could possibly be referring to, was APOLLO.
I had to set the mug down quickly before my suddenly shaking fingers dropped it.
“I- What- Why- How-” My usual eloquence mercilessly abandoned me, rapidly reducing me to a blubbering mess of a god.
My children, bless them all, were not at all perturbed by their godly parent’s transformation into a pathetic, teary mess. Then again, it was hardly the first time they had seen me in such a state, so perhaps they were tragically used to it.
“Happy Father’s Day, Dad,” Will told me, closing the gap between us to wrap his arms around me tightly. I sobbed into his shoulder, unable to grasp any words to express the depth of my emotions at the gift, and felt the rest of my children move in until I was at the centre of a group hug.
When it comes to being a parent, I always fall woefully short of the mark. This is something I have been aware of for centuries, certainly long before any of my current children were born, and reluctantly resigned myself to. I wish I could say I try my best, but quite frankly, how much I try behind the scenes does not translate across to the parenting my children receive. A parent should give more than they take, but all I ever feel as though I’m doing is taking and it is to my children’s great credit that they do not confront me about it.
What I had done to deserve this mug, this honest, unabashed compliment of the highest accolade – higher than an Oscar, or any of the various music, poetry and archery trophies in my overflowing trophy cabinet (it’s more like an entire room in my palace, if I’m being pedantic) – I could not even begin to identify, but the fact remained that my children gave it to me, and my response was – understandably, in my opinion – to cry all over them.
I could say that the tears were the result of too much emotional turmoil in one day. Certainly, I would be entirely justified in blaming the whiplash from the start of the day compared to my children’s unexpected gift for the rivers of tears racing down my cheeks and the stuffy, bloated feeling of the inside of my mouth. The truth of the matter, however, is that I would have reacted the exact same way even if I had had the best day of my life leading up to that point.
My children are the kindest, most amazing people on the planet and I do not deserve them, although I am also far too selfish to ever let anyone else have them. How they do not hate me is a question I have no answer for.
“I-” I tried, only for my voice to crack in a very un-godly manner. I swallowed and made a second attempt. “I’m not-”
“Youare,” Kayla interrupted me aggressively, even going so far as to squeeze my chest in a way rather reminiscent of the Heimlich Manoeuvre. Had I had anything in my airways, it wouldn’t have stood a chance. Were I mortal, it likely would have threatened the integrity of my ribs, too. Coming from her, in particular, the sentiment was enough to render me speechless. After all, I was not Kayla’s only father, and surely Darren had a far greater claim to Number One Dad than I did – for starters, he was actually a consistent figure in her life, even though she now lived at camp all year round.
“We love you, Dad,” Austin told me firmly, leaving not a single sliver of room for doubt or untruth, and that was more than enough to provoke a fresh wave of messy, ugly crying from me as I clutched all of my children as tightly as I could manage.
“My beautiful children,” I wailed, sniffling unattractively. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
If possible, their hugs got tighter.
I did not manage to regain my composure for the rest of the day. No doubt Dionysus had known exactly what my children had in store for me, because he was absolutely correct – I would have been a pathetic opponent, not least because after finally leaving my children, several hours later, I refused to put the mug down for anything at all. Even when I eventually returned to my palace on Olympus, the precious ceramic (they had made the whole thing from scratch themselves, I’d learned; Gracie had shown me the failed attempts at spinning the clay) remained clutched firmly in my hands as I pondered where to keep it.
In the end, the answer was obvious, and I made my way into my trophy room, heading straight for the centre table, where the most prestigious of awards were displayed. My Olympic wreath for beating Hermes in a footrace, one of my oldest and most gloat-worthy (he prizes himself on being fast; I have never been forgiven for that defeat, to my great amusement) accolades has held pride of place here for millennia.
I moved it to one side, and placed the mug there instead.
Fandom: Trials of Apollo/Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard
Rating:Teen
Genre: Adventure, Friendship
Characters: Will Solace, Magnus Chase, Apollo, Nico di Angelo, Alex Fierro, Meg McCaffreyAnd we return to regularly scheduled posting! There shouldn’t be any more disruptions between now and the end of the fic, you’ll hopefully be pleased to hear. This chapter has been a Long time coming, and not just because of the brief pause in updates. It’s not the longest, but it’s a big one regardless. And it’s a pov I know people have been waiting for!
Reminder that there’s now a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi!
APOLLO (XXVI)
Olympian Family Reunion, AKA Drama Time
No! Apollo’s mind screamed, at a volume to rival Nico’s vocalised scream, as Will collapsed to the ground. There was a spear running straight through his son’s abdomen, and Apollo’s medical mind inconveniently immediately rattled off all the delicate organs and other things vital to living that would have been damaged by the weapon now impaling the unconscious teen.
It was a familiar weapon, one he’d seen a thousand times before. His half-brother had an ever-growing collection of the things, and while that had never been Apollo’s cup of nectar, it had never particularly bothered him before. Seeing one of Ares’ spears stuck through his son as though he was a kebab, however, did more than botherApollo.
Itinfuriatedhim.
His first emotion, when he’d seen the gods at a stand-off – before the spear exploded towards them faster than any of them, Apollo included, could react – had been an uncomfortable mix of delight and apprehension.
They were all there. Zeus, of course, was a given, and also the biggest issue, but he’d been far from alone. Artemis, his beloved sister and, according to Will, the one who had sent out the most searches for him – including the three that had found him – looked older than usual, seventeen or so compared to her favourite twelve, but was as always unmistakeable. Poseidon and, to Apollo’s complete amazement, Hades, flanked their younger brother, the Big Three united, while two of their sisters stood at the back. Apollo hadn’t expected any of his aunts and uncles to be there, but certainly not the goddesses; Hera hated him – a mutual feeling – while Demeter preferred to avoid conflict. Athena and Ares stood on the outermost flanks, the god and goddess of war in their element as it loomed. Hephaestus, Hermes and even Dionysus lingered back with the elder goddesses and Aphrodite, tense and ready for action. Hestia, as always, was the only one missing. The hearth waiting for them to come home, once everything was over.
The fact that they had all been there for him, regardless of the nuances behind that decision, had hit Apollo hard, sending his emotions haywire as he tried to work out what he was supposed to be feeling at the sight of them.
Then Ares had moved, the two pantheons had collided in a burst of energy that was still just posturing rather than war (thank Olympus), somehow one of his half-brother’s spears had ended up in his son, and all the emotional confusion their presence had brought melted away until only two emotions remained.
Fear and rage.
“Will, don’t you dare.” Nico was on his knees, clinging to his boyfriend tightly as though he had the power to keep him alive through sheer stubbornness. Technically, Apollo supposed he did. “Don’t you dare.”
Apollo didn’t remember falling to his knees next to his son, his dying son, but he was down there, too, and his hands were pressing on the wound, trying to stem the blood as he drew on his powers of healing. His wrists twinged warningly, as they did whenever he used his powers, but Apollo ignored them; despite what he’d told the demigods, they weren’t powerful enough to actually affect his abilities. The issue with them was something else entirely.
Other hands joined his, glowing golden, and he looked up to see Magnus next to him, grey eyes hardened in determination.
“I’ve got this,” the Norse healer said. “Go. Stop them.”
He should. Apollo knew that.
Apollo also knew that he had lost too many children in the past three years. None of his children had sided with Kronos, but while that was a source of pride and comfort that they did, at least, love him more than they hated him, it had meant that they had been one of the largest cabins going into battle, ending up on the front lines despite not being front line fighters through sheer, cruel necessity.
Will was not going to be joining his fallen siblings, not today. The quarrelling – warring – gods could wait until he was sure his son would live. And he wouldlive. There was too much Apollo still had to say to his son, too many cracks that had yawned into chasms during the quest that he’d yet to do more than weakly paper over that he needed to address properly. Too much that he’d put off, because there was an apocalypse at stake and it wasn’t going to wait politely for him to give Will everything his son needed from him, everything Apollo wanted to give his selfless – too selfless - child.
Willcould not dietoday.
“Apollo.” Nico’s face was tearstained, and Apollo knew that the son of Hades could feel the life threatening to leave Will’s body just the same as he could. Nico, however, could do little more than frantically tether his soul – healingwas beyond his powers.
Small hands on Apollo’s shoulders announced Meg’s presence.
“Go,” Meg said firmly in his ear, leaning in close enough that her breath tickled his skin. “You need to stop this.”
“Will-”
“Magnus is on it,” Nico told him, although the son of Hades was shaking as he ran his fingers through blond hair. “We won’t let him die. You have to do this, Apollo. You’re the only one who can.”
He was right, as much as Apollo was at loath to admit it. Any of the demigods would be torn to shreds if they even tried to get closer to the arguing gods; as it was, they were close enough that any moment they could end up in the same state as Will, whose body he could feelknitting back together again beneath his and Magnus’ ministrations. Outside of Valhalla, even Magnus would die for good.
Enough demigods had died at the whims of the gods. Enough demigods had died for Apollo.
Determination, fuelled by rage – both at himself and his brethren – flooded through him, and he let out a measured breath before pulling back his bloodstained hands. Immediately, Magnus’ shifted to cover where his had been, still glowing brightly gold.
Apollo tore his eyes away from the limp and bloodied body of his son and pushed himself to his feet, turning away from the tangle of demigods and facing down the carnage that was the battling pantheons.
“Shouldn’t you take the bow?” Nico asked as he started to take a step forward. “You’re weaponless.” Apollo paused and looked down at the weapon, gold against the golden paving and splattered with crimson droplets. The bow he’d stored Apollo in, out of Odin’s power but close enough to Lester to trickle in behind the seal he’d placed on his heart when necessary, and explode back where it belonged once his own power shattered it. The bow he’d then given to his son – to keep him safe, to protect his amazing, kind-hearted healer of a son who should never be asked to take a life but the Fates clearly had other plans for him – stained by the blood of the very same teen it was supposed to protect.
Breaking up an inter-pantheon conflict without a weapon for protection sounded like madness, but he didn’t reach for the bow. It was Will’s now – for all the good it had done his son so far. Apollo’s journey with that weapon was over; he had willingly gifted it away and he wouldn’t take it back. Not now, and not ever.
“Adding another weapon to the mix won’t stop anything,” he said out loud. “Stay back, and stay safe.”
Without looking back, he started walking. One foot in front of the other, fear bubbling under the surface as he realised what he was about to do but tempered by the determination to protect those four lives behind him, and stop this.
He didn’t have a weapon, but really, that didn’t mean that he was helpless. Instead, Apollo let the fear, the rage, the determination, swell up. He saw Will, skewered by his own uncle’s weapon as a thoughtless piece of collateral damage. He saw Alex, refusing to back down and buying them every last second she could. He saw the rest of floor nineteen, staying behind with grins on their faces to hold back an impossible stampede. He saw Jason, heard the dying voice yelling for him to REMEMBER.
Remember what it was like to be human. Remember what it was like to be the sacrificial heroes, fated to die like thrown-away toys of the gods.
He let it all bubble up, just like the tunnel, when he’d battled Commodus for the last time, and then let it all out in a single-note scream.
No arrow would break up this battle. No golden light would be enough to distract the single-minded gods. No shouting and waving would get their attention, except maybe as a target to hit.
The scream crashed into the gods like a physical force, knocking some of the slighter ones back and stunning the rest into stopping in their tracks. They weren’t weak enough to be destroyed, not like Commodus, but while Apollo was no Big Three, there was always a reason Zeus came down harsher on him than most of the rest. There was a reason it had taken six months to strip him down to total mortality, six months that still remained a gap in his memories, despite the restoration of everything else.
Hands balled into fists, trembling slightly from the flood of emotion, Apollo stalked forwards into the midst of frozen gods, feeling their eyes laser in on him. He didn’t acknowledge any of them until he was right in the centre, the sun he’d been ever since Helios had faded. Not Zeus’ blazing fury, not Athena’s scrutinising look, not even Artemis’ relief.
He stopped exactly between the two sides, took a deep breath, and said one word. “Enough.”
For a blessed moment, silence reigned.
Then the shouting began.
Somehow, Apollo had forgotten just how loud his brethren could be, although the addition of the various Norse deities – most of which he couldn’t name – really wasn’t helping the noise levels. He glanced across to where the demigods were huddled at the edge of the courtyard, and blinked when he realised they weren’t alone.
Magnus, his glow weak and his body no better, had been joined by an older man with the same blond hair and aura. Jack was pointedly hovering the other side of Magnus, although not touching him, which was interesting considering the man was one of the few Norse gods Apollo knew by name – and last he’d seen Frey, he and the sword had been nigh on inseparable. Inconveniently so.
If it was any other god, from either pantheon, Apollo would have stormed straight back over and dragged him as far away from his son as possible. It was tempting to do that anyway, but he forced himself to think rationally. Frey was the Norse god of peace; he wouldn’t do anything to risk aggravating the situation further. He was also, like his son, a healer.
Besides, Nico was there, and like all the current Greek children of the Big Three, Nico had noqualms about telling gods to shove it. Combined with his love for Will, there was no way the son of Hades would hesitate the instant Frey did anything that wasn’t directly helping. Apollo’s son was in the best possible hands outside of his own.
The thought calmed him some, for all that it chafed that he couldn’t be the one saving his son’s life, and he reluctantly let his attention return to the gods all yelling at him. Zeus looked almost apoplectic, and storm clouds were gathering above them, blotting out the sun.
That was not a metaphor Apollo was particularly keen on at the best of times. Right now, he hatedit.
“I said enough!” he roared. The gods all quietened, probably more out of shocked offence than obedience, and Apollo seized his chance before they worked themselves back up again. “Do you want another war?” he demanded of his own brethren, avoiding looking directly at Zeus, “so soon after the lasttwo?”
“Why not?” Ares shrugged. Apollo rounded on him, feeling his power flare up.
“Your spear is currently in my son,” he growled. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut.” The god of war scowled, but Aphrodite appeared next to him, a hand on his arm, and he kept whatever retort he had to himself.
Zeus, on the other hand, had no such restraint. “Do not speak to your brother like that,” he ordered. “Odin has reached beyond his territory, even now his taint is on Olympus, and that is an insult that cannot be let pass.” He stepped forwards, towering over Apollo despite not being that much taller.
He didn’t need to be.
“A father who terrifies you,” Angrboda had said. She hadn’t been wrong, for all that Apollo tried in vain to pretend that he wasn’t scared of Zeus. He didn’t stand up to him because Zeus was the king, not because he was afraid of what would happen if he did… Except he was, and that was a lie he’d told himself over and over again, hoping that if he said it enough, it’d become the truth. As though the god of truth could make a lie come true.
The last time he’d displeased Zeus, a minor infraction brought about by flattery, and something inconvenientcoming out of Rachel as though Apollo had any control over the timing of prophecies, his punishment had been the worst one to date. This was the first time he’d seen his father in person since then, and the urge to apologise, step back, and let his father do as he wanted, again, rather than risk another punishment bubbled up temptingly.
He turned away, and faced the god standing opposite Zeus instead. He’d never met Odin in person, but the power rolling from the one-eyed god matched the magic in the runes on his wrists perfectly, leaving his identity unmistakable.
“If you carry on fighting, Ragnarok will start,” he told him. “This war isn’t worth it.”
Odin’s fingers tightened around his spear, and when he spoke, his voice rolled over Apollo as heavily as Zeus’. “I am not the aggressor here, boy,” he said. “If you want to prevent this war, I am the wrong person to appeal to.” His one visible eye flashed with rage. “I have half a mind to strike you down where you stand for infiltrating my halls.”
“Touch him, and die,” Zeus snarled. Apollo wished that was because his father cared about him, but he knew better than that. It was all about Zeus – Zeus’ authority being undermined, his territory being advanced upon. Apollo was just a convenient god-shaped representation of all of that – Zeus’ property, not his son.
Apollo’s eyes found his own son again, still limp but no longer on Nico’s lap. Magnus was barely conscious next to him, leaning heavily against his own father and no longer glowing while Frey continued to work. Movement next to them snatched his attention, and his eyes widened at the sight of Meg and Nico, wrestling with a bloodstained girl with ringlets and a tattered Valkyrie uniform.
Of course, Carrie was a Valkyrie. Travelling to Asgard was well within her powers.
Nico had his sword out, parrying every blow Carrie made, while Meg danced around them both, calling up plants in an attempt to snare the daughter of Loki. Despite the state she was in, Carrie seemed determined to take at least one of them down with her, and Apollo remembered what she’d said earlier. Neither Hades or Demeter would sit by idly if their child was killed on Norse ground.
By pure chance, Meg caught his eye. Meg, who had stood up to Nero when it mattered the most, who had faced her personal demon, her abuser, and claimed her own life back. Meg, who had the strength Apollo lacked. Meg, who in a single look reminded him that no matter what, she believed in him.
Apollo couldn’t let her down. Couldn’t let down any of the demigods that had got him this far.
And Odin’s words had given him the last piece of the puzzle.
“Enough,” he said, again, turning back around to glare at his father. “Odin will not smite me, and you will not use me as an excuse to wage war.”
“Apo-”
“You sound very confident of that,” Odin said, overriding Zeus’ furious response. Apollo was glad for that, because it meant no-one else had noticed him flinch at his father’s tone. Hopefully. “Explain.”
“You won’t smite me, because if you do, Loki wins,” Apollo declared, facing the Norse All-Father again. The Norse gods shifted, murmuring amongst themselves. “I didn’t enter Valhalla of my own choice; I was brought there, stolen, if you will, by a Valkyrie.”
“One of myValkyrie?” Odin raised his visible eyebrow, but the rage in his eye didn’t abate in the slightest. “You were not brought to Valhalla on my orders.”
“I know.” The moment Odin had called him an infiltrator, the question about which god was responsible had been answered. “The Valkyrie in question was her.” He pointed to the fighting demigods, and sensed Hades and Demeter both stiffen at the sight of their children caught up in battle against a shape-shifting menace.
Even if she was mortal, and seriously injured, Carrie was still a Valkyrie. With Nico on the defensive, protecting Will, and Meg without her scimitars, it was an even fight.
“Carrie,” Odin rumbled.
“Daughter of Loki,” Apollo confirmed. “She captured me on his orders, not yours.” He stepped forwards, holding out his rune-marked wrists. They were still throbbing warningly, protesting against his usage of his power even though they couldn’t stop it. “Remove these, and set me free.”
Behind him, Zeus sucked in an indignant breath as he saw the runes. From his earlier words, Apollo suspected the same runes had sunk into his throne on Olympus.
“Father,” Athena said quietly. She’d come up next to Zeus, the favourite daughter and advisor. Her words were enough, for the moment, to silence the king of the gods, but Apollo knew it wouldn’t last.
He met Odin’s eye squarely, refusing to back down. Silver glistened in his periphery, and he knew without looking that his twin had come to stand beside him.
Odin regarded him for several moments. “You’re impertinent,” he said.
“I’m right,” Apollo retorted, “and you know it.” Odin, All-Father, seeker of knowledge, god of poetry and divination. In many aspects, they were each other’s counterpart. All Zeus and Odin had in common was their position as the ruler of their pantheon, but Odin and Apollo?
Not equals, perhaps, but there was something between them. Understanding.
“As I said,” Odin replied. “Impertinent.”
He reached out with one hand, and clasped Apollo’s right wrist, exactly over the rune. His magic burned as it activated, searing pain forcing its way through the rune, and with a choked cry, Apollo sank to his knees.
Zeus’ fragile hold on his temper broke, and lightning crashed down.
