I had writer's block. BD Legan suggested some things to write. I also decided that the drabbles are no longer limited to 100 words.
I don't own PJO.
He seemed uncaring.
There was a reason, of course. Gods were chaotic, but even they had to have reasons.
When he was younger, he had been kind to the brats. And then wars cropped up, and they were dying by the hundreds, and it hurt so much.
He had tried in vain to keep up the kindness, but it just made the pain worse. And then, in the middle of one of the worst wars for centuries, his daughter had died.
He had withdrawn. They didn't need his kindness. They had always taken it for granted. Why had he even bothered?
That's what he told himself.
The truth was, it still hurt. Every one of those deaths was like he'd been stabbed. Over and over. Knife in, knife out. The dull rhythm of life.
So he started calling the kids by pseudonyms. Maximillian, not Mack. Jean, not Georgia. Tina, not Thalia. It lessened the pain when he saw the names of the dead, the stabs when he read the bold black letters.
But Percy Jackson had earned the right to be called by his real name. And besides, he'd be lying if he said the pain hadn't become a part of his existence.
Dionysius. The god of wine, of madness, of grapes. Husband of Ariadne. And the carrier of so much pain.
It had a nice ring to it.