The Roaring Voice (of the God of Joy)

"Prepare yourselves

for the roaring voice of the God of Joy!"

― Euripides, The Bacchae

…

a/n: This story is like… 80% OCs (not SI-OC or reincarnation). Updates will likely be every week on Monday/Tuesday. Betaed by Cardinal Snowflame.

Chapter titles are all from Euripedes' Bacchae, sometimes modified slightly.

…

[ CHAPTER ONE - OH, ZAGREUS, SON OF GOD ]

[ September, 1992 ]

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not really, but Mede was sure it was storming (and nighttime) somewhere in the world. It wasn't quite a dark and stormy night, but the anxiousness Diomedes' felt sure would have fit with that weather.

Diomedes was worried. He'd never really had prophetic dreams —a blessing, really, thanks to his great-grandfather Somnus— but he'd been twitchy all morning, waking up around four and running about restlessly ever since. He couldn't find a reason for it. His demigod child-soldier days were long over. The most interesting things that happened to him now were the occasional monster-spotting, baking on weekends… and his lover. His lover who disappeared a month ago with the promise of returning with a gift. Fuck.

Doing his best to alleviate the panic, Diomedes holed up in his apartment, sprawled out on his couch with a book open in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He tucked himself in an uncomfortable-looking position, his book tilted just right so that the light from the open windows lit up the words.

Mede had learned early on to never trust Zagreus' "gifts," because while the god was terribly sweet, his idea of proper gifts was greatly flawed. The human knucklebones were proof enough of that. And yet still, the anxiety Mede felt seemed more fitting for a significant day, a turning point in history, not a sleepy September morning that he'd originally planned to spend baking cookies and catching up on his pile of books to read.

Diomedes resolved to ignore it, reading the cheesy romance novel in his hands aloud to stave off the confusing curl and twist of letters from his dyslexia. Sure, he could get a book in Latin, but there were very few well-translated and enjoyable works other than the old, bland histories and mythologies. Which he had already read. No, Mede would sit here on his nice new couch, drinking sweet coffee, and reading about a moderately toxic, very straight romance.

"Oh, to hell with it," Diomedes muttered, slamming the book shut and leaving it behind him on the couch, wandering instead to the kitchen. His fingers tapped a restless pattern on everything he passed, but he settled easily into the routine of making cookies, easily finding the ingredients as if he had spent many hours in the kitchen doing exactly this. Which he had. Many times.

"Orange juice," Diomedes listed the ingredients aloud as he read through the recipe, "orange zest, cranberries, flour, sugar, powdered sugar, joys, butter—" he hummed, setting everything out on the counter.

He went through the motions of preparing the pan and finding his hand-mixer, mixing ingredients one-by-one until he had a sweet orange-y dough, rolled out into perfect little spheres that he put in the oven, then taking the time to prepare the frosting for the cookies. It was a recipe Zagreus adored, and a recipe that Diomedes had grown a little too fond of making for the god. Those days always ended nicely.

It was well after he'd frosted all of the cookies and settled back into his seat, now with milk instead of coffee and a less trashy book that Diomedes heard the door unlock. The only person with a key was Zagreus, and that meant–

"Honey~" the sing-song voice of his lover echoed through Diomedes' apartment as the door closed with a click, "I'm home~"

Mede laughed warmly, standing to greet the god. Zagreus never really stayed long, and Diomedes' apartment certainly wasn't his home, but they'd been having an affair off-and-on-again for well over two years and Zagreus had long ago decided he had free reign of the place. Mede walked across the living room, turning into the hall to kiss the man as he habitually did, but he stopped dead once he saw the god.

"What the fuck?" Diomedes asked incredulously, staring at the god and the bundle in his arms. "Did you kidnap a child?"

Zagreus' grin widened and his smile was brilliant, "No, I made one!"

"What?"

"Diomedes," Zagreus said cheekily, "meet our child. He's half me and half you, like I said would be beautiful. Has my eyes, and your pretty blond hair. He must have good genetics."

"I thought you were joking about that," Diomedes said breathlessly, "you–you don't have children, Zag. You said that–you said that you'd rarely had children," he was babbling, "we're both men, where did he come from?"

"Magic!" Zagreus said unhelpfully, "A little bit of this, and a little bit of that."

Diomedes' knew Zagreus' myths, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion, "You'd better not have sewn him into your leg."

Zagreus' laugh is loud as he passes the child to his lover, leaning to press a brief kiss against Mede's mouth. His hands brushed gently over his son's forehead as he stepped back. He was more… goddish, today, Diomedes thought, eyes full of dark fire and more malice than Zagreus ever directed towards him. The shadows in the hallway seemed to cling to him, and in the air was the hazy taste of wine and blood. The half-smile and confident stance was all the Zagreus Mede knew, though, despite the dark light in the god's eyes.

"No sewing," Zagreus promised, "though he is my demigod child, and," his smile is sadder, "you know by now what that means."

Diomedes winced, swallowing the protest he'd been about to utter. He knew gods. He knew Zagreus. "I'll miss you," he settled on saying, watching the god. Zagreus' smile is soft, but he doesn't reply in kind, walking instead back to the apartment door and vanishing as the door shut behind him with a quiet click. Diomedes stared down at the child in his arms, and the baby peered back sleepily with Zagreus' red-purple-black eyes and Mede's own golden hair.

Mede hoped for a moment that Zagreus' blood would be prominent and the child would be empathetic and easy to handle, but the little devil opened his mouth and immediately began to scream. Diomedes just stared, sighing as he began to bounce the kid up and down in hopes he'd maybe quieten.

"You're going to inherit all the worst parts of him, aren't you?" he asked the kid, rolling his eyes as the baby screamed louder. "Well, you're mine, too," Diomedes said decisively as he brushed his thumb over the baby's tiny nose, "and hopefully you won't grow up with a habit of tearing people apart like your other daddy has."

The screaming gradually tapered off into sniffly sobs as the baby tired himself out while Diomedes bounced him, humming a soothing song with just enough of Diomedes' grandfather's mild sleep magic that the kid ended up snugly tucked against him, asleep. Now, just to figure out all he needed to raise a child.

"Oh shit."

…

It's evening, and Diomedes was already worn out. He'd gone to several different stores, buying whatever he could that might help keep a kid. It's terribly mismatched—the crib has pink and yellow butterflies on it, the blankets are all sorts of colors, the clothing isn't all for baby boys—but Diomedes hardly cared. His now-definitely-ex lover had just ditched him with a child, he wasn't about to be fussy when it came to the supplies he needed to raise the kid.

The kid. Who needed a name.

One of the cashiers had asked what his name was and Mede had panicked, stuttering out that he hadn't decided yet and he didn't know he was going to get custody and how was he supposed to decide? The cashier had taken one look at the sheer panic on his face, apologized, and told him he really ought to get on that.

Which left him here. Baby in his arms and flailing for a good name

He did remember a conversation with Zagreus, one of many about a child Mede had never actually thought would exist. Zag had talked all about how his child, whoever they were, would grow up to change the world. The demigod world, that was. Zagreus had been terribly confident his child would bring about change, but Mede knew Romans.

Diomedes sighed, "Maybe you'll stick with Greek demigods," he said hopefully, "Zag's Greek, after all, and I sure don't want you anywhere near Camp Jupiter." his hand brushed over the baby's little face.

"Alistair." Diomedes declared, "I name you Alistair Valerius," he frowned, "I'll give you a middle name some other time."

…

[ August, 1996 ]

"Alistair Orpheus Valerius!" Diomedes shouted when he found his child halfway up a tree with a pigeon held in one hand. Alistair freezed completely at the shout, staring intently down at his father and looking increasingly distressed.

"Just what are you doing with a pigeon?" Mede questioned, voice rather shrill, "How did you even get a pigeon?"

"Caught 'im." Alistair lisped, "snuck up and caught 'im."

Mede closed his eyes. Catching live animals is not actually a skill he thinks his son needs to develop. "And what," he asked slowly, "were you planning on doing with the pigeon after you caught him?"

Alistair blinked, looked down at the squawking pigeon in his fist and then looked back up at his father with wide eyes. "Um."

"By the gods, child," Mede said with a sigh. "Did you not have a plan?"

"I jus' saw 'im and had to catch 'im!" Alistair protested, waving the hand with the pigeon in demonstration.

"Let the pigeon go." Diomedes ordered, and Alistair complied with a pout. Diomedes looked frustrated as he watched the pigeon rapidly flutter away, "Alistair, we do not catch pigeons like that. You were holding it too tightly and you were hurting it." Alistair's eyes began to tear up as the child sniffled, and Diomedes continued sternly, "If you ever catch an animal, you do it gently, Alistair. Make sure it can breathe, and let it go afterward. Do not hurt animals unless they attack you. That pigeon did not attack you."

Little tears dripped down Alistair's face as the child cried quietly. Ali had always hated the idea of hurting another living thing. Diomedes helps his son down from the tree, crouching in front of him. "Do you understand?" Diomedes verified, wrapping his son in a hug the moment Alistair nodded. Mede kissed his son's temple, lifting him into his arms as they made their way back out of the park.

"I swear, Zagreus," Mede murmured under his breath, uttering the phrase like a prayer, knowing his former lover would likely hear, "our child is going to kill me."

…

[ February, 1997 ]

Alistair was six the first time he ran into a monster with Diomedes.

Mede made a point of going out and calling a friend in a phone booth every weekend, luring in monsters and killing as many as he could. It was perilous, sure, but he'd rather fight them on his own than have his son be there, at risk.

He hadn't even skipped a weekend. It was a Wednesday, and Mede was walking his son to the park after first grade, both wrapped up in more jackets than they really needed. Alistair had asked for ice cream, and Mede had compromised with warm churros. And hot chocolate when they got home.

It was a good compromise, as Alistair had gotten distracted after half a churro, leaving Diomedes with one and a half warm churros and a view of his child running around the playground, babbling to other kids and generally causing havoc. Nice havoc, though, as Alistair hated making people upset, and tended to be overly cautious if he wasn't sure if something would hurt someone.

It was a decent enough trait, Diomedes thought. He could live with the only person Alistair was grumpy around being his father, even if it got annoying. That was his job, after all. That, and watching Alistair try to climb on top of the play structure. Eh, he was being careful, he could have his fun.

Mede is almost through with his whole churro when someone sat down beside him, leaning towards him and sliding their hand from his knee to his upper thigh. Mede took a long moment to stare at the hand, stilling and setting the churro to the side before turning to glare at the person.

"Hey, handsome," the woman purred. Diomedes' first thought is that she's ugly. The second was a realization that she was an empousa, and she was trying to drug him with her allure. Hopefully to kill him, and not rape him like he'd heard some of them did. Either way, he was going to kill her first.

"Hey," Diomedes said flirtatiously, grin sharpening into something vicious, "bitch."

The empousa's face went slack in realization, but she's too slow to move and Mede jammed his imperial gold knife up under her ribs, watching silently as she turned to dust. Mede checked on his son, and there's an empousa standing above him, eyes lit in fury as she watched her sister dissolve. Diomedes cursed, rising to his feet. Alistair is looking at the lady with wide, enamoured eyes, but Mede's shout snapped him out of it, "Get away from my son, lady!"

The other parents at the park looked up, alarmed, as the empousa grip tightened on Alistair's arm, pulling him away down the path. She can't exactly eat him in the middle of a park, after all.

"Let go of him!" Diomedes shouted again, sprinting towards the pair. The empousa bolted, dragging Alistair with her, though by then he knew she was bad news and was kicking and struggling. It's with a twist of fate that the empousa is tackled to the ground by another dad at the park, the mortal man kneeing her viciously in the stomach while a mother pulled Alistair away and towards Diomedes.

Someone called the police. The mortal man had amusingly pinned the empousa to the ground, and even with the monster's spiking allure he fought through it, more concerned for his own children. There were angry shouts from other parents, and soon enough a passerby was helping the man pin the empousa, and parents were collecting their children from the playground.

Diomedes picked his son up, cradling him carefully to his chest as he kissed the kid's temple.

"Thank you," he said to the mother who'd pulled him away, raising his voice to repeat the sentiment to the man pinning the empousa. "Oh, Alistair," he whispered to his child, pressing another kiss against his head.

"Of course," the mother said easily, "is he all right? Suzie called the police, I think. We should wait for them, get that horrible woman in jail. I noticed you paying attention to your son the whole time," she looked at him mock-scoldingly, "even if you didn't seem bothered by him climbing on top of the roof of the playground."

"Alistair knows what he's doing," Diomedes replied, squeezing his child gently, "usually," he amended as he thought about the event that just happened, "at least, he does when it comes to climbing all over things. I always worry he'll get stuck in trees."

"I noticed," the woman said with a strained laugh, looking over at the empousa anxiously and back at Diomedes. "Sorry that happened. In broad daylight, too," she frowned. "I can't believe that woman thought she could get away with something like that!"

Diomedes nodded in agreement.

Later, his smile was vicious as the responding officers handcuffed the empousa, leading her to jail. One of them read as demigod, or at least legacy, and they shared knowing glances as the officer's grip tightened. The other is female, unaffected by the empousa's allure and Mede figured either the empousa would make it to prison or be killed by the legacy. Either way, he knew his son was safe.

…

[ December, 1998 ]

Winter break had not gone to plan. Diomedes had taken Alistair camping in the forest, tent and all, something he'd been terribly unprepared for. Sure, Mede had looked up as much as he could about what to bring camping… but he'd never actually camped before. Yes, as a legionnaire he'd done marching campaigns and knew how to set up a tent and boil water and all of the other relevant skills, but it was a lot different being alone with a dependent child to having an entire legion to depend upon.

Sure, Diomedes managed to set up a tent and a fire pit just fine. He managed cooking the food he'd brought over the open fire, and managed getting his son tucked into sleeping bags just fine at night. They went on hikes in the day and inexpertly fished in the little creek by the campsite. It was nice.

But they were demigods.

Nothing ever stayed nice for demigods. Diomedes had picked out the sound of barking wolves in the distance easily, and some half-repressed instinct from being a child in Lupa's pack raised its head as he stilled completely in the motion of tending the fire. His eyes shone in the reflection of the fire as he warily eyed the surrounding trees.

The next howl is clearer, closer, less remnant of mundane wolves and far closer to lycans. Diomedes swore, ignoring Alistair's little gasp and reprimand of naughty language. He checked his bag, pulling out the weapons there. Shapeshift-y spear, shapeshift-y shield, non-shapeshift-y dagger. Silver dagger. His mother had been the one to hammer that tendency into his head—if you knew of monsters that could only be killed by a certain metal, you brought a weapon with that metal with you. Forgetting that had cost his mother much of her left leg and arm on a trip outside of New Rome. She had never left again.

He freed the large rectangular scutum shield first from the collapsible… thing… that the Vulcan children had designed, strapping it onto his arm with practiced skill. He'd made a rookie mistake leaving his armor at home, and he swore to himself again as he tightened the strap that would attach his silver dagger to the inside. Might as well keep some element of surprise, after all. It only took a twist on the end of the hair pin—a tool Mede had outright stolen from a rather cruel daughter of Venus—for his spear to form in his hand.

"Alistair," Diomedes commanded in a calm tone, "put wood on the fire. As much as you can without it getting too high. The wolves you hear are probably lycans–werewolves. They can only be hurt with silver, and I only have one silver dagger. I should be able to handle them, but if they climb the tree, break off a branch and hit them with it. As hard as you can, okay? And keep hitting. Now climb the tree, Ali."

Diomedes' smile was halfway between reassuring and panicking, but Alistair did as he commanded readily, trusting in his father. Alistair scaled the tree easily, hands and feet finding branches in all the right places. It was a skill Diomedes encouraged exactly for this reason.

The son of Mercury's face was grim as he turned his back to the fire, listening carefully to the approaching howls. He adjusted his body, tucking it behind the large shield and making sure he remembered the movements to the side and back so that he can turn and fight without putting his back against anything but the now blazing bonfire.

He only glanced once up at his son, high in the tree with his arms wrapped around the trunk, looking down worriedly at his father. When Mede looked back at the treeline, there was a faint outline of a snarling wolf in the shadows.

A taunting smile crept onto Diomedes' face, "Hey, little wolf," the son of Mercury mocked cheerfully, twirling the spear in his hand once as he adjusted so the spearhead was pointing towards the monster. The wolf snarls, and Diomedes stretched his awareness to the limits to see how many other wolves were about.

"Hey, little Roman," a voice said cruelly in return, and Diomedes shifted his body slightly to face the speaker. The lycanthrope was scruffy, looking appropriately like he had spent his entire life in the woods. His eyes were the almost-golden all the wolves shared, and his canine teeth looked especially sharp. He was naked, and stayed mostly in the shadows like the other wolves were.

"Don't suppose you'd leave if I asked nicely?" Mede asked, effacing a polite smile.

The werewolf's expression was vicious as he leered predatorily at the demigod, "Not if it means we miss out on killing one of Lupa's bitches."

"I did leave Rome behind," Diomedes countered, and the werewolf laughed. "That shield says differently," the monster said, and in the next moment the man was a wolf again, and one from the other side came sprinting forward.

Diomedes' grip shifted, and as he crouched behind his shield he slammed the butt end of his spear into the side of the wolf's head, stunning it. He'd have to use the weapon like a staff, as the imperial gold would do more harm than good (good than harm?), and using a staff one-handed had never been something in his skill set.

The wolves prowled around him, and Diomedes forced himself to relax. He stayed facing the wolves directly in front of him, but paid attention to the likely location of the others. He could manage this.

In the next moment, a wolf slammed into his shield, pushing him toward the ground, while another tore the spear from his grip. With a furious shout, Mede pulled the dagger from its sheath, sinking the blade into the throat of the wolf on his shield and slashing the throat of a surprised other. He rushed back to his feet, unbalanced, but managed to shift so that he was once again backed against the fire, silver dagger in his hand glinting from the light.

The wolves backed away, and Diomedes' expression was wild, "Scared of a little silver?" he mocked, twirling the blade experimentally — and idiotically — in his hand. He was halfway through the spin when a third wolf darted forward, jaw wide and aiming for his outstretched wrist. He fumbled, and slammed the boss on his shield into its skull instead. The metal boss doesn't crush the wolf's skull, but having 20 pounds of hardwood and Diomedes' weight slammed into its head stunned it, buying Mede a moment to readjust his grip on his dagger and jab it straight through the skull of a fourth.

Three down… a lot more to go.

"To Mercury," Diomedes intoned under his breath, hoping that sacrificing to his father might give this fight his blessing. One of the wolves let out a somehow mocking bark, but Mede felt his steps lighten and his pace quicken. Ideally, he wouldn't be fighting a pack of wolves and would be able to just use knives for the benefit of speed, but this is not an ideal situation.

A wolf on the left darted towards him low to the ground. He kicked it in the head with enough force to send it off track. From the right one hurled itself through the air. He met it with his shield and slammed the silver dagger up into its guts, pushing it off with his shield into the seventh wolf. Another right, this one he gets the dagger to go straight through its eye, and the one directly in front of him throws itself against his shield.

Diomedes staggers backwards towards the blazing fire, off-balance. In the second it took him to regain his footing, there's another wolf there and he stumbled to the ground, keeping the shield over much of his body and using his dagger to kill another wolf.

"Fututus et mori in igni," he hissed at the monsters, straining to get up on his feet. He doesn't want Alistair to watch him die. He doesn't want Alistair to die.

A wolf bit at his feet, and he kicked out, the bite turning instead into teeth tearing through his skin. He heard a thunk, and a glance around his shield indicates that the wolf that bit him just took a tree branch to the head. Diomedes looked up for a moment with wide eyes at his son as he broke off a second branch and threw it down at the werewolves. They weren't heavy branches, but it was enough of a distraction for Mede to kill another wolf.

He's crouched now, shield in a rather uncomfortable position and left arm twisted slightly. He wasn't quite in a position to adjust and stand fully—his foot was a mess, and something was strained, but he still had a silver dagger, and that was really all he needed to kill a wolf. Or a few dozen.

Diomedes managed to kill two more before he fell again, and as the wolves crept slowly closer, Mede backed towards the fire. Latin curses slipped out of him, and he madly hoped Alistair wouldn't pick up on them, the kid was far too young to curse. He strained to his feet again, and another branch came from above, crashing into one of the wolves' heads. It does nothing but enrage the lycanthrope and alert them to Alistair's position, but the next projectile to hit them was a silver arrow, puncturing straight through the wolf's head. And then a second, and a third.

The wolves howled, some darting away. One tried again for Mede, and it was by pure instinct that he gutted the thing with his dagger before it could actually reach him. A fourth is cut down by the mystery archer, and then a fifth. The clearing where Diomedes' had set up camp was emptying quickly of werewolves, and Diomedes' eyes were wide, breath quick.

"Looks like you're having a rough evening," a man called from the trees, stepping out of the shadows. He had a bow in his hand and arrows strapped at his waist, and was wearing a bronze breastplate and greaves over long dark clothes. There was a sword at his side, and a dagger strapped to his thigh, but the most notable feature? The great big fucking wings that came sprouting out of his back, all off-white and awfully angelic.

Diomedes gapes, mouth wide as the man surveys the campsite. The mystery archer only glanced once at the tree Alistair had hidden away in, but he was focused more on the man he'd just saved.

"He-llo, handsome," the man greeted Diomedes playfully, "hadn't realized you were so pretty. I'm Atticus, son of Eros," his free hand gestured at himself, "hence, the wings."

"I think I could kiss you," Mede said dumbly, staring gratefully up at the demigod who'd saved him. The son of Eros was gorgeous, and he'd just saved Alistair's and Diomedes' lives.

"It's not even the second date!" Atticus replied teasingly, moving to help the other demigod to his feet. Diomedes let his shield collapse and pocketed it after unstrapping his dagger's sheath, and the son of Eros pulled him up with his left hand, supporting him as he stood on his damaged foot. "Not to mention," the Greek demigod continued, "I don't even know your name."

"Diomedes," the Roman said, then hesitated, "son of Mercury."

The grimace Atticus made at the Roman name is more than a little entertaining, and the son of Eros watched the other demigod in silence for a moment. "Do you care?" Atticus finally asked. While the clearly Roman shield had likely given it away, there was always the hope it was just something the other demigod had picked up somewhere.

Mede shook his head, "It's been far too long since I've lived in New Rome." Atticus nodded readily, pulling out a bar of ambrosia from his pocket, offering it to Mede. The divine food set in quickly, and Mede grit his teeth as the deep gashes on his foot pulled together.

He looked up at his son, still clinging to the tree, even with another branch broken off in his hands. Alistair's eyes are wide, but he seems more focused on Atticus' soft white wings than on the many dead lycanthropes around them. Mede wished for a moment that they were normal monsters, the ones that dissolved into gold dust when you killed them. But no, the lycanthropes were once men, and their humanity clung to them enough that they bled red blood, even when killed in wolf form.

"Come down, Alistair." Diomedes finally called to his child, slumping slightly as the exhaustion began to set in. Atticus said nothing, but he moved to start packing up their campsite, chucking the clothing and the other tools into the duffle bags Mede had brought and collecting up all of the food. Mede watched as his son slowly climbed down out of the tree, crushing him in a hug the moment his feet touched the forest floor.

"Good throw, darling," Diomedes complimented, "I think we're going to cut our trip short."

"Daddy," Alistair sniffled in distress, "daddy you almost died." He hiccoughed through the sobs, and Mede lifted him into his arms, glancing over at Atticus, who just smiled reassuringly as he tore down the shredded tent. It took a while, but soon enough they were trekking silently back to Diomedes' car, Mede and Atticus both paying close attention to the sounds around them, making sure there were no more wolves about.

When they got to the parking lot, Atticus offered to drive, citing Diomedes' exhaustion as reason enough. Mede hesitated, but… Atticus felt safe. And old. Older than a lot of demigods he's met, and he was pretty sure the son of Eros wasn't intending anything other than driving them home and making sure they were okay. It certainly didn't hurt that Atticus was stunning, though, all well defined muscles and gorgeous features (and the wings. by the gods the wings).

"Alright," Mede agreed, passing over the keys and sitting in the passenger seat. He told Atticus the address, and ate more of the ambrosia. It knocked him out almost immediately, head drooping against the window not a minute after Atticus started driving, making sure to avoid as many potholes and bumps as he could.

The Greek demigod was unsurprised. Diomedes had killed almost a dozen wolves on his own, and when Atticus had shown up the lycanthropes were already edging towards leaving because it was too much work. Atticus was impressed.

"Who are you?" the kid in the back asked accusingly.

"Atticus, son of Eros." he answered calmly.

"Where'd your wings go?"

"I had a child of Hephaestus design clothing that could cloak them on and off. Essentially, they appear and disappear, using the Mist in some way. I'm not totally sure on the details."

"Can you fly with them?"

"For a bit."

"Where'd you come from?"

"I've been following the lycanthropes for a bit, it was pure luck that I was around and heard the fight."

"Where are we going?"

"To your home. Apartment."

"Why's daddy asleep?"

"He used up a lot of energy fighting the wolves, and the ambrosia that's healing him can be exhausting."

"Who's Eros?"

"Greek god of love. Who's your divine parent?"

"Zag-ree-us."

"Zagreus and Diomedes, then?"

"Mhm. Who's your other parent?"

"Never knew her."

"Oh." Alistair paused, "Why not?"

Atticus laughed.

…

a/n: edit 09/21 minor grammar fixes, a/n change, & italics