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The day Meg McCaffrey is summoned to Olympus is the day she dies.
Artemis doesn’t know what to expect when Meg McCaffrey, daughter of Demeter and the former master of her brother, walks through the looming double doors of the hall.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spots her brother giving her a little wave. The young demigod’s tense shoulders loosen, ever so slightly.
“Meg McCaffrey.” Zeus regards the little hero coolly. “Olympus thanks you for your assistance in my son Apollo’s quest.”
Meg only nods, crossing her arms.
“But,” Zeus continues, “there is still the matter of your… former allegiances.”
All levity leaves the room.
“Father,” Apollo starts, but Zeus levels a forbidding look at her brother, and he falters.
“Meg McCaffrey used to be one of Nero’s best proteges. She was treated as his stepdaughter. That cannot be forgotten.”
“But she is not—”
“No, Apollo,” Zeus rumbles. “You are not fit to pass judgment. You have been compromised by your time as a mortal in her service.”
“That’s stupid,” Meg blurts from where she stands, so very small. An eerie hush descends. Artemis feels the air go staticky.
“Stupid.” Zeus’s voice is deadly soft. “In front of all the gods, daughter of Demeter, you would insult me so?”
Meg, distressingly, only nods, and does not take back her words. “Yeah. It’s stupid. Being un-goddy made him better, actually.” The hair on Artemis’ bare arms stand up. The tension thickens with roiling power.
Zeus inhales. Glares. “Are you asking for a taste of lightning, girl?”
“No.” Meg arches an eyebrow, frowns. “You sound a lot like Nero.” She pauses, then tacks on, “You’re acting just like him, too.”
Until this point Apollo has been stunned speechless, but now he shakes off his shock and rushes to her defense. “Father, ignore her, she doesn’t mean it—”
“I do,” Meg says loudly, and Apollo’s face is stricken.
“No you don’t, Meg—”
“Okay, maybe I don’t,” Meg amends, presumably having caught the murder in Zeus’ glare. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“For speaking the truth,” she mutters under her breath.
What Meg did not account for was that gods had vastly superior hearing than the average mortal. And so Artemis was now painfully aware that her father had heard every mumbled word.
Artemis chances a glance in Zeus’ direction. Her father’s face is, in a word, murderous.
“You dare,” Zeus seethes.
Faster than the eye can blink, a bolt of lightning is in his hand and it streaks a beautiful deadly hot-white arc at the young demigod, and Apollo is shouting and shrinking and sprinting toward Meg.
Apollo is not fast enough.
The lightning Zeus had wielded is not as intense as his master bolt; this is the only reason why Meg manages to snatch a few more ragged, broken breaths as she is thrown to the ground, too stunned to even scream. Artemis sits so very still, digs her nails into the flesh of her thighs, and watches her brother fall to his knees and scoop up the young girl.
“Ow,” Meg says quietly, astonished. As if she hadn’t expected any actual retaliation for bad-mouthing the king of the gods to his face. Apollo shushes her, frantic, and Ancient Greek hymns and incantations of healing fall from his tongue. It will not be enough against their father’s lightning—Artemis knows this, and she knows Apollo knows this. Yet still, still his hands pulse with desperate healing and his voice never falters. Meg’s skin is—smoking, and burned, and while the charred flesh has already begun to heal, the real damage was done to her nerves and heart. There is no healing for such irreversible damage that Zeus’ lightning caused.
In the forbidding silence of the council room ten Olympians squirm and fidget and look somewhere else, fear of a similar fate halting any thought of aid. Even Demeter says nothing in defense of her daughter, although her eyes are horrified and her mouth opens and closes uselessly.
Artemis does not look away, even as she feels the injustice of the needless death bubble up in her. She is still twenty feet tall but her enhanced senses mean that she can hear her brother crying his heart out some fifteen feet below her with the wretched knowledge that even he, the god of medicine, can’t save her, not from this.
“Meg—no, Father, why did you—I’m so sorry—Meg, no, please—”
“Not—” Meg’s voice cracks. “Not y’r fault.”
“Piano lessons,” he pleads. “You haven’t—you can‘t die yet. Why did you have to say that, Meg, no, you can’t—”
“S’rry. Y’ were right.” Meg’s features shutter. She snuggles closer to him. “Was stupid.”
“No.” Apollo’s voice is laden with heartbreak. “You can’t—so many people who love you need you to stay alive, Meg, I need you alive—”
She summons up a pained smile. “Love you too, dummy.”
And then she sighs, and it is the sound of her life leaving her.
The image will be forever seared into her mind’s eye: Apollo, her sun-bright little brother, cradling young Meg McCaffrey’s lightning-blackened body to his chest, his eyes wild. For several moments that feel like an eternity, he only rocks her gently. Meg, she can hear him murmuring, in time with the breaking of her heart, Meg, Meg, love you too, oh, dear Meg, no, I’m so sorry...
Artemis closes her eyes for a moment, and feels the miserable shame of inaction wash over her.
When her brother finally lifts his head, his face is still streaked with tears. Zeus’s expression has smoothened, once more implacable as a stony cliffside.
“You.” The word is a harsh whisper, and Apollo’s voice, that voice that could make the mountains weep and cause the wind to laugh, is wracked with such rage and disbelief and unspeakable, endless grief. It rings, reverberating discordantly. “I will remember this.”
High on his throne, the king of the gods does not spare Apollo a shred of sympathy. “This is unbecoming of you, Apollo. Clean it up and get back to your throne.”
“Clean it up?” Apollo is trembling with barely restrained fury. His body is—oh, his skin’s cracking, golden light seeping through, like yellow fault lines of magma. That’s new, Artemis thinks distantly. “How dare you. How dare you. She was only a child!”
“She was insulting me to my face. Berating the king of the gods in front of his council, as if he were a foolish, willful child!” Zeus thunders.
Apollo lays Meg McCaffrey’s head, so very gently, on the cold marble floor. He breathes in and the golden glow dims; he breathes out and the light intensifies. He stands.
Emotions are undignified for gods. Gods are all-powerful and regal and they do not weep. Athena is most excellent at this; the other Olympians achieve varying degrees of success. Apollo, for as long as she has known him, spent his days with a smile etched on his face, always as bright as a sun, but she is his twin and when his expression was false Artemis has always known. He has always loved and laughed and cried so very intensely, even when he tried to hide it behind all that high-handed arrogance. Now, though, the look on his face is utterly robbed of all pretence, and it is terrible to behold. She has not seen him like this since Asclepius, or Daphne, or Hyacinthus. His face is streaked with tears—he has not stopped crying, has not even deigned to wipe them away. Despite this, the god Apollo is still a sight to see. His body burns with a light so intense that it would blind mortal eyes. He does not reach for his bow, nor any weapon, but his false smile cuts deeper than any knife, and his eyes are ablaze with the burning of a thousand suns.
“I think, Father,” he says, deceptively casual but for the tremor in his hands, the sharp edges of his syllables, “that maybe, she was right. Maybe she was right to call you stupid. Maybe she was right to berate you, as if you were a foolish, willful child. Because you are like Nero! And you killed her just because she dared to say what we all have been thinking, and I will not stand for it!”
Artemis is screaming, what are you doing brother have you gone out of your mind brother he will punish you too, but Apollo keeps talking, his voice rising and rising in volume, even as their father’s expression darkens with each word.
“I’m not you. Perhaps you expect I will once again enact vengeance by slaughtering some Cyclopes or some of your demigod children.” He is still smiling, teeth bared. “And maybe I would have, definitely I would have, if I hadn’t met Meg. You should be thanking her, actually. Or maybe not, because now I will lay the blame where it belongs—fully at your feet.”
Their father crackles with electric fury. “Do not—”
“Oh, but I will. She was right, and you murdered her.” Apollo’s smile morphs into a snarl. “You have taken my sister from me. I will remember this.”
The light surrounding him flares, and when it fades Apollo and the body of Meg McCaffrey is gone, and the hollow echo of wrath-grief-anguish ringing in the thick, roiling silence is the only thing left in its wake.
No cities burn, and this is only by the grace of a daughter of Demeter now dead. No cities burn, but mortal meteorologists sweat in their lab coats and work clothes and frantically track the sudden, swift, sporadic increase of solar flares. Somewhere in Palm Springs, California, in a courtyard of greenhouses and a house made of nature with the word Aeithales engraved on its doorstep, the seven Meliai freeze, turn to set their gaze toward Olympus, and bow their heads. All across the continent, those attuned to the divine pause, and for some inexplicable reason they find themselves looking to the sun, which flares with an almost unnatural heat.
Apollo descends with the body of his dearest friend cradled lovingly in his immortal arms and when he grieves, the world grieves with him.
He has learned from his mistakes.
In the past he has been quick to anger, quick to action. Niobe’s seven sons, slain for their mother’s insult to Leto. The Elder Cyclopes who had fashioned the bolt of lightning that had caused his son Asclepius’ death, shot with golden arrows. Curses rashly spoken on those who spurned or wronged him.
Now, he bides his time. He continues to drive the sun across the sky and inspire artists and he keeps himself up-to-date on the latest medical breakthroughs; all the while, Meg’s death festers like an open wound. He attends the required council meetings and nods and says nothing. The only change from his old routine is that he takes more time to visit the demigod camps, Zeus be damned. He even checks in on the Waystation, where Jo and Emmie and the rest of their patchwork family have carved out their safe haven, and Aeithales, where Luguselwa harbors the former Imperial household demigods. And if his hands shake when he reaches for his ukulele to strum a campfire tune, if his head aches at the scent of peaches, if his throat tightens at the sight of unicorns—well, he can only swallow the sickening feeling of loss, and tamp down the bubbling anger that chases it, like the moon chases the sun.
He is immortal. He has all the time Meg does not, will never have. He swipes away the tears that come when they burn her funeral shroud. He consoles Luguselwa who loved Meg like her own. He chokes down his own grief and impotent fury.
He waits. And when the moment of opportunity presents itself, he will strike.
Metis, for fear of bearing Zeus a foretold son stronger than his thunderbolt, had been made a fly and eaten. But this is something the prophecies had neglected: as Zeus toppled Kronos, so the ousting of fathers is in his children’s blood. And Apollo is unquestionably his father’s son.
Apollo himself is no stranger to rebellion. Eons ago he assisted Hera in a thwarted insurrection, and was cast down from Olympus as punishment; his very first time as a mortal. But for far too long he has simply—given up on the idea of resistance. Somewhere along the way, the burning desire to remake Olympus into something else was smothered during his millennia of life. The mere remembrance of electric, scorching pain has done well to drive even the mere thought from his mind. It was easier to simply nod and smile and obey, like a good little god.
Now, though. The terrible injustice of Meg’s death— dear, dear Meg—remains fresh, like a bleeding heart-wound that refuses to clot. He remembers with livid clarity how not one, not even his sister, lifted a hand to stop Zeus when he decided to take matters into his own hands.
But. Deep down, he knows that it was only fear of Zeus punishing them, too, that had stayed their hands. So despite how much he resents their inaction, he takes a chance. He talks to Artemis, who, now that he thinks about it, reminds him entirely too much of Meg—she, too, is the favorite. He talks to Demeter, who, while distant from her daughter, surely still felt something for her. He talks to Athena, who has been giving him strange, examining looks ever since his return to godhood. He talks to Dionysus, who still chafes under Zeus’ needless punishment. He talks to Hades, who has always felt overlooked, even with the recent events. Even Hera. His wicked stepmother, while undeniably still wicked, is now— sympathetic. (It is bewildering, but decidedly welcome.)
And so, the gods make their unholy alliance.
They have learned from their mistakes.
They decide on a form of government in advance. (A true democracy; no more kings, no more tyrants. Equal power to all Olympians, the way it should have been under Zeus.)
They decide how they will deal with the other gods not privy to this little coup, for one reason or another. (Demand agreement. Keep watch on them for a length of time.)
They decide what to do with the absence Zeus would leave. (Hestia. She, as the eldest of the gods, has long deserved her own official seat on the council. Hades, while still bitter over his exclusion, admits that a throne for him would see little use. He would rather be afforded more respect than possess an idle chair.)
They decide what to do with Zeus. (Lethe, and then life as a mortal. Despite how much Apollo loathes his father, he still cannot find it in himself to kill him. It is maddening, but he consoles himself that life as a mortal would be more humiliating in Zeus’ eyes, though Apollo himself has long professed appreciation for his own mortal tenure. Besides, Zeus might even gain morals. (Maybe.))
They argue over who else can be brought into the fold, they divide Zeus’ realms between them. They actually listen when Apollo ventures to request they overturn Zeus’ decision to lessen divine interference in mortal lives. They labor over the details of their plan. They plot, and distract, and play the consummate Olympians.
On the cusp of a new spring, all the pieces fall into place.
They strike.
Zeus’ allies have long been, by him, alienated, or slighted, or are essentially dead. The renegade Olympians do not fear a repetition of their previous attempt.
He is alone in the council room when the would-be rebels file in; scowling and sullen and proud, as always. As he has been for eons.
And he is alone.
“Father.” Apollo smiles just a little too widely. Perhaps some of his intent leaks from his voice, because Zeus’ eyes narrow.
Zeus gives him a kingly nod, and waits for the Olympians to take their seats and begin the council. They have fanned out behind Apollo, like rays of a sun, and they do not take a single step forward.
“What are you waiting for?” Zeus rumbles. “Let us begin the meeting.”
“Husband,” Hera says sweetly, “I am afraid you have been misinformed. There is no meeting.”
Zeus rises slowly to his feet, expression stormy. “What is the meaning of this—”
“I am sorry, brother,” Poseidon says somberly.
“I’m not.” Hades is smiling, and it is a dreadful thing to behold.
Apollo turns to look at Hephaestus.
Millennia ago, they trapped Zeus with a finely wrought net of gold, hammered in the fires of Hephaestus’s forges, and if only the sea nymph Thetis and Briareos did not freed him, then the god of the skies would have remained imprisoned for millennia more. But Thetis and Briareos will not be so driven to free Zeus now; time, and Zeus’ many offenses, have long eroded their goodwill toward him. And so, Hephaestus reforged his creation.
Now Hephaestus summons the great net and flings it into the air.
In the same moment, Apollo pivots to face his father and lets fly his golden arrows, knowing that as he does so, his sister does the same, a mimicry of silver. Faster than the eye can blink, and faster than Zeus can call down his lightning, the arrows slam into his godly flesh and celestial throne, bringing the net with it. Ichor drips from where the arrows have struck him, and Zeus roars and writhes, trapped underneath the arrows and the great golden net of his children’s making.
One of the Olympians does something to force him to silence, to the relief of their eardrums. Apollo imagines the ruckus has caused many curious residents of Olympus to creep closer, in dual wonder and fear of what the gods have done this time.
He closes his eyes. Opens them.
He looks back at his fellow conspirators, and sharing a look, they advance. When they reach Zeus they haul him off his throne and to the ground, and begin the chant. Zeus struggles to his feet, eyes wide with a rare panic when he recognizes the words. After all, it was the same words he himself had said to punish Apollo.
Zeus is king of the gods, lord of the skies, an Olympian.
And in a few moments, what Apollo thinks must be his greatest fear will be realized: he will be only Zeus.
He will be only a mortal.
Apollo is selfish. He knows he is not the one Zeus has hurt the most, but the knife of Meg’s death is still stuck in his chest, still pulsing with grief. And he is selfish enough to want to be the one who tells Zeus his last words as a god, as Zeus had done with him.
The chant finishes. Only the hum of power, roiling thick and heavy in the air, remains.
“Your fault.” Apollo’s voice rings. “Your punishment.”
One last surge of godly power is unleashed, and just like that the king of the gods is king no more, and not even a god. It is a seismic shift that can be felt. The universe has tilted on its axis, like a boulder crashing into still waters. Hades brings over the goblet of Lethe, and forces it down his brother’s throat.
By their command Olympus cracks open at their feet, and as Zeus’ eyes go blank, Apollo places his hands on his father’s shoulders in twisted mimicry of a loving action.
“This is for Meg,” Apollo says quietly.
One sharp shove is all it takes.