open: all harmony of instrument or verse, all prophecy, all medicine, is mine. 1

[papadopoulos]

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.

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[papadopoulos]

"Yeah. Older twin," he replies with a fond smile. "She's the goddess of the hunt, the moon, lots of things. Has a whole pack of hunters that follows her around."

[wickedwit]

"Yes, she's still quite popular among maidens who wish to remain maidenly. Queer women," Claudius clarifies, since he has that word in his vocabulary.

[papadopoulos]

“I mean, they might be queer, fair enough,” he shrugs. “But Artemis’ thing is more sworn to be celibate than anything else. I’ve got a couple friends back home that used to be hunters of hers, Emmie and Jo —but when they wanted to be together, like in a relationship; she let them leave. They gave up their immortality to be together. Got a cute kid too.”

[wickedwit]

"To be sure, I don't imagine any of my cohort back home were sincere worshipers of Artemis. It's simply how women who love other women find each other." But he smiles at the story. Sober in a priest in the middle of the day, he still loves love every bit as much as he told Tally at the bachelor party. "As thy friends Jo and Emmie found each other. Giving up the immortal hunt to have a cute little family -- how terribly romantic. Art thou a romantic, Apollo?"

[papadopoulos]

He can't help but laugh, and it is again more charming than it has any right to be, though a little sadder than he's willing to admit. "I'm the god of poetry, what do you think?" Apollo leans back against his couch again, sprawl still inviting as ever, thoughtlessly attractive but somewhat subdued now.

"..Yeah. I guess I am," he continues, quiet. "Not to say that I get along well with my sister; in fact I think she gets great pleasure out of fucking my life up, but ...I'm a sucker for a pretty face."

[wickedwit]

Claudius laughs, feeling fond of Apollo in his openness, teasing, "I think a half of poetry must be written for that reason. In praise of a pretty face. Are there any faces thou hast noticed since coming to this place?"

[papadopoulos]

"Well, of course. Aleksander, for one." He smiles fondly. "Susan's not bad either; but she didn't seem particularly interested. And some others, but --" There's a shrug. "I didn't exactly start off on the best foot with them."

[wickedwit]

“That's no problem. A little initial conflict creates tension, and leads to negotiation — romances that start smoothly won’t always stay so. If you've disagreements from the start, you learn how to resolve them." Or keep arguing until you've driven each other away completely, but Claudius doesn't have to say that. "Who are you thinking of?"

[papadopoulos]

"Oh, it's not even romance-wise, though he is good-looking. I just..ah..was talking about my children with him and we sort of got into an argument a few days ago. I think it was mostly things came out wrong on my part."

[wickedwit]

“Even the god of poetry can express himself poorly, it seems,” Claudius observes, sympathetic in his tone and gaze. “What was the point of contention? Did you tell him about Shakespeare?” It’s quite reasonable to argue over Shakespeare.

[papadopoulos]

He laughs, but it's quickly aborted, and shakes his head. "Could have been the fact that I don't quite remember how many I have?" he replies, looking about as sheepish as a golden retriever who knows he's done something wrong. "Or that I got defensive when he tried to press me for more information about how gods treat their kids in my world."

[wickedwit]

“One of my dearest friends in Denmark didn’t know how many children he had,” Claudius says, quite matter-of-factly. “He was a philanderer and a drunkard, of course. Someone with predictable, manipulable vices, which perhaps wasn’t the strongest basis for a friendship. Old friends aside,” with a wave of his hand to dismiss them, “defending the ways of one’s world is always a tricky proposition. Rarely does it resolve the heart of a dispute, but it gives good context. How do gods treat their children in your world?”

[papadopoulos]

"Not great." He sighs. "If you've talked at all to Magnus, you've probably heard a lot about it. I mean, his dad is Norse, but it's --similar to what we Greeks do as well. With less practicing for Valhalla, I guess."

[wickedwit]

“Oh, Valhalla is bad enough,” Claudius says, with a light roll of eyes. “My ancestors’ idea of what the reward for a life well-lived should be. Generations always disagree on these things. But I suppose Greeks are similiar, and place the same emphasis on proving one’s worth through quests and combat and otherwise needlessly risking one’s life. We all have a pronounced streak of self-martyrdom in our cultures, don’t we?”

[papadopoulos]

He shrugs. "My father--he's all about that kind of stuff. Proving you're worthy, being perfect, being good enough -- not upsetting his perfect little world. He's used to getting his way. I..." There's a pause, and Apollo sighs; thinking of Jason, of Piper, of Leo and Calypso, every one of his friends who have been forced to fight and honor the gods to prove their worth.

"..It's not worth it, in my opinion," he says finally, quietly. "Our kids don't deserve that, just because they're different from most mortals."

[wickedwit]

“There’s another thing we have in common,” Claudius says, with something approaching gentleness. “Gods, demi-gods, and royals alike. We’re born to extraordinary, unearned privilege, and told to prove ourselves worthy of that privilege, even though worthiness never granted us our powers in the first place. I understand it in theory. Someone like Luo Binghe, for instance, who has the power to control people with a single drop of his blood, could stand to be tested by a higher power to see whether he deserves such a thing. Heriditary kings should be judged on whether they deserve to rule over others. But the sort of judgment that comes from Zeus is simply judgment on how well you can serve his own designs. All because of the family you happened to be born in.”

[papadopoulos]

Apollo gives him a rueful smile. "Sometimes you just wake up and you're the god of the sun, you know? Anyway. I've got about 4000 years of making up to do in terms of the 'being a good dad' scale, and the bar is incredibly low if I want to do better than my father. I just wish -- ...well, I don't know if I wish my kids were here; because they have better things to do than be stuck in an alternate universe -- but I wish I could at least send them an Iris message or something, sometimes. Check in on them, you know. Everyone at home probably thinks I've just gone back to normal forgetful Apollo."

[wickedwit]

"Well," Claudius says, lightly. He flops, for a lack of a better word, into Apollo's side, sliding down from his careful perch. "We'll have to figure out a way to do just that. You know I'm not one for limitations. If we can revive the dead, we can get a message to your children. Just compose the message you'd like to send."

[papadopoulos]

"I can compose literally anything you want," he says, laughing. "But thanks for the offer of help."

[wickedwit]

"Oh, please do," Claudius says, slipping easily back into light-hearted, flirtatious tones, with a sideways look. "I've always wanted handsome men to compose poetry to me. Write something especially flattering."

[papadopoulos]

"Right now?" He looks amused. "I will warn you, my current preference for poetry is haiku."

[wickedwit]

“I meant later — half the pleasure of receiving a poem is imagining the lonely poet bent over a desk, so struck with longing it forces him to try and conjure your beauty in verse. But you have me intrigued. I’ve no idea what a haiku is, so it’s an enticement, not a warning.”

[papadopoulos]

"Oh, it's a Japanese form of poetry. Came around in --uh, the 1600s, I think? It's very simple, unrhyming, each line has a set number of syllables. Five, seven, then five again. They're fun, but a challenge to get right," he replies cheerfully, as though his haiku are not incredibly silly most of the time.

[wickedwit]

"As are most things worth doing," Claudius says with a cheeky smile. "Surely I'm worth it."

[papadopoulos]

"You?" He makes a teasing show of looking Claudius over. "I'll allow it."