"Daddy?" the voice is soft, tremulous, wet with unshed tears. Apollo looks up from the song he is composing.
"Yes, child?" he calls back, not quite sure who called out.
"Daddy, I need help." now that voice he knows. The words, too. They're depressingly common. It's his youngest, his baby, his little Mania. Today has not been a good day, seeing as the temple floors are gleaming so brightly you can see your reflection in them.
He heads towards the direction of her voice, walking briskly so as to not keep her waiting.
"Coming, love" he calls back.
He finds her in the garden, on the marble steps leading into the private quarters she shares with Aesculapius. She is tugging anxiously on her long black hair, looking down at her lap where several long strands already lie. Her dainty feet are bare, resting on the side so the soles do not touch the ground. He only needs one glance at the blood streaked over the marble to know what she needs help with.
He schools his face to not show a hint of sadness or worry as he conjures up a basket filled with items needed to care for her wounds.
He lifts up one foot carefully, inspecting the damage.
"Well done" he says, honestly. "you managed to stop this time, I can barely see any flesh at all."
Her anxious dark eyes meet his briefly, and his heart aches at the look in them.
"Really?" she whispers. He gives her an encouraging smile as he carefully cleans her ripped skin. It hurts, but she makes not a sound of protest or pain. Her hands rub and twist against each other in a manner he knows as one of her most used ways to reduce stress. He says nothing this time, just keeps working on her feet. The same feet she picked the skin off until her blood ran over the stairs and she called out to him to help her.
Once he has finished, he helps her stand. He would have preferred to carry her, but does not want to take away this little bit of independence. He just offers his arm as support and feels relieved when her small fingers clasp it. He pointedly does not look at the bitten down, chewed up remains of her nails.
He helps her over to her favorite chair and makes her a cup of tea; prepared to her liking, no spoon. The last time some numb skull had given her a spoon, she had stirred until the tea was cold, the China cracked, and she was crying over her inability to stop. She gives him a tiny, grateful smile.
He smiles back, sadly, wishing once again that the fates had never ordered her birth. She is his beautiful daughter and he loves her deeply.
Deeply enough to wish she had never been born.