Green grass breaks through snow, Artemis pleads for my help

Contact Information

User ◘ Mandy DW
Discord ◘  mandyficent
Plurk ◘ tyriangalley
Other characters ◘ Muselist
Timezone ◘ EST


Keep in mind I'd like to know who am I talking to first, though! So tell me who you are if you add me anywhere.

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Feel free to crit away too. Anon should be on and IP logging off.

Please be constructive, otherwise it doesn't help anybody :)

Home, where my thoughts are
waiting silently for me
(wait, that's not mine. oops)
_______________________________________

The scent of strawberries fills the air. That’s the first hint that he’s not at the Mansion, and Apollo opens his eyes. There beneath him lies Camp Half-blood, the Big House off to one side, twelve cabins and various others scattered in a loose horseshoe shape nearby. It’s strange to see it after so long, almost exactly how he’d left it when he expected to arrive there almost a year ago.

He can tell this is a dream, however; it feels familiar, like the prophetic dreams (memories) he’d had back when he was Lester. This doesn’t seem like a memory; it seems like the present. His questions are quickly answered when he sees a few familiar forms exiting Cabin 7 on their way to the campfire. The mop of unruly blond hair is clearly Will, and Austin and Kayla aren’t too far behind–and then, there behind them are Yan, Gracie, and Jerry. He hopes they haven’t given up on him. It’s been almost a year, after all, maybe they think he’s just gone back to his old ways. (It wouldn’t be the first time.)

If only Meg was here, he thinks as he lands gently on the ground. But this is not Aeithales; she is likely back in Palm Springs where he last saw her. In any case –maybe this is all a dream for his kids, too – it happens, sometimes, when you’re a demigod – he strides over towards his children, giving them an awkward little wave like he hasn’t just disappeared for the last nine months. (Maybe he hasn’t? Maybe it’s been, like, two days, he doesn’t know how this whole thing works.) Will shoots him a mildly surprised look. “Hey, dad.”

Dad. He hadn’t thought he would miss that word as much as he has; but a lot of things have been very different in the past year of his life. He had promised he wouldn’t forget how to be mortal; he would be better. Easier said than done, when one is whisked off to an alternate dimension. (Even there, though, he is trying.) Tears spring to his eyes all of a sudden: perhaps it’s the lingering memories of Jason Grace, or perhaps it’s suddenly being somewhere that has felt more like home than anywhere else, and he steps forward and pulls all of his kids into a hug, one after the other.

“Sorry I’ve been gone so long,” he tells his children – who give him some more surprised looks. “....Dad, it’s been like. Two weeks since you were last here,” Kayla says, flipping her green hair over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We know you’re busy.”

“It’s not that,” Apollo says, transitioning in an instant back to his Lester-form, and proceeds to relay the whole of his past nine months at the mansion. At least now he knows that his children hadn’t given up on him. “I’ll keep in touch, if I can,” he promises when he’s done with his story. “Or maybe I can –do this, again. The sun always comes back, right?” Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he feels a pulling; like the dream or whatever this is is about to end. “I gotta go now, though,” he continues, reaching to ruffle Will’s hair as his eldest son gives him a very aggrieved look, far too old for this nonsense. “Be good. Tell Meg I miss her, and I’m sorry I couldn’t check in on her.”

…And just as abruptly as it had come, the scent of strawberries disappears, and Apollo is whisked back to his third-floor bedroom at the mansion, early-morning light streaming through the windows. In lieu of children, he has cows to take care of; and so his day continues apace.

Poetry is great.
You don't have to take my word,
try it for yourself!
___________________________

Somewhat unexpectedly, Apollo is indoors. It’s been some time since he’s had the time or energy to dive into poetry and books: though Tyson and his harpy² girlfriend did run a bookshop at Camp Jupiter; Apollo had had no time to look in on things in the midst of battle and trying not to turn into a zombie. He is taking some time today to appreciate the quiet of the library; immersed in any and every kind of poetry he can get his hands on. There are books of sonnets piled about him, Dante’s Inferno, some of Byron’s works, and a collection of Oscar Wilde’s poems. He has even managed to find some examples of Chinese poetry, and is sprawled out across a couch dressed for the beach, but looking as content as a cat who’s gotten into cream and like he's quite happy to stay inside all day.

It feels like it’s been an age since he’s properly gotten to dive into the written word as much as he likes to; and he is more than willing to take advantage of this peace and quiet.


¹Actually, he hates terza rima, but this poem is about him so it will do.
²Complimentary.

Music is love’s food
Heh, my son said that. Sort of.
Anyway, he’s right.


Summer has always been one of Apollo’s favorite seasons. That stands to reason – the sun is out longer, it is warm, and there’s plenty of light about. Spring isn’t half bad either, he has always been one to appreciate the beauty of nature in an early spring; though he is no nature god. It should be no surprise, then, that he is out and about exploring the woods these days, spending as much time out of doors as he possibly can. He flits from one activity to the other quite frequently, it’s hard when you’re a god with too many interests.

In the early morning, he can be found at the archery range. He’s always been an early riser (except when he was Lester, occasionally), and by the time most people are out and about, there is a fine collection of arrows embedded in the center of the target. He remains there for some time, enjoying the simple pleasure of being able to actually hit the target properly after his six months as a mortal.

A bit later in the day, Apollo is still outside, settled under a tree with his guitar. If anyone is out and about, they will hear him singing. The song is in Ancient Greek, full of the sorrows and longings and everything that he’s experienced in his short time here in the mansion – but above all, there is a small thread of hope running through it. It jumps from slow and contemplative, a shared grief to joyous and optimistic in quick succession –spring is the time for rebirth, after all. He may as well sing of the small hope the mansion has with the recent happenings. Those who encounter the song will hear something that is possibly the best music they have ever heard. It’s nothing altogether special for Apollo, of course, but in his playing he has forgotten to keep his powers tamped down like they usually are.