Chapter Text
Zeus visited Delos often, at first, and despite everything Artemis heard while she was still in her mother’s womb—despite the stress and the curses and the pain she went through—she couldn't bring herself to resent him for the fact that he didn’t do anything to help them; Hera was still the queen, after all, and his wife, and Artemis didn't want a godly crisis to happen just because she, who wasn't even supposed to exist in the first place, demanded her father’s assistance.
She did resent him for visiting Apollo the day he was born and not her, though, but then again, Hera could've seen that as an attempt to help Leto and undermine her authority, since Apollo hadn't been born yet, so Artemis kept her mouth shut and let Zeus shower her with gifts, afterwards, and teach her how to use a bow and how to play with dice because, even like this, she was happy. It wasn’t even that difficult to let go of all her anger, when she saw how happy Apollo looked, too, when Zeus turned the rocks on the ground into turtles and the leaves into sparrows to make him laugh, or when they all sat together on the shore, grinning and laughing and playing with the sand.
On the third night after Apollo’s birth, they decided to stay outside long after the sun disappeared behind the horizon. It was late, and they still hadn't put out the bonfire; they didn't need to sleep, and the sky was clear enough that the stars were visible.
Despite being able to look any age she wanted, Artemis was still a child, by godly standards, and considering how twelve days weren't nearly enough to learn all that the world had to offer (however small that world seemed to be), she still marveled at the simplest of things.
Fire, for sure, wasn't her favourite among all the little miracles nature had to offer, and she still shied away from getting too close to it, as her skin burned even when she wasn't touching it; yet, as she sat near the bonfire with her parents and her brother, while toasting pieces of bread covered in ambrosia and singing silly songs about every god they could remember the name of, she couldn't help but stare at the incandescent sparks dancing around the flames. Zeus told them about Prometheus, that same day, and about how he stole the fire from Olympus and gave it to the mortals, about his defiance and his punishment, and all Artemis could think while he talked was—had it been so wrong of him to want to share something that had such a great potential to create love? Had it been so wrong to be kind?
Artemis didn't sing along with Apollo and her parents—her voice wasn't as pleasant as her brother’s, and she was always slightly off-tune—but she did dance with them, jumping and spinning around as she held her father’s hand.
At some point, Zeus paused, taking Leto’s hand in his. “Do you remember that song we used to sing back in the old days?” he asked, a smile on his face.
Leto laughed. “The old days were many days ago, and we sang many songs back then.”
Zeus leaned in, whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again, her eyes brighter than before, and a little redder.
“That one? Are you sure?” she asked; when he nodded, she let out a sigh.
Neither Apollo nor Artemis paid close attention to the song; later on, when they became older, Leto would explain to them that it was a song about two lovers who could never be together, and they would remember the words and hate their father, each in their way. That night, however, they were young and ignorant and drunk with joy, so it didn't matter.
As Leto and Zeus sang, distracted, and the two of them leaned on each other, already close to falling asleep, Apollo called, “Artemis?”
With her eyes half-closed, she only managed to hum.
“Was what father said to mother this morning true?” She felt him move against her shoulder. “That soon he won't be able to visit us as much?”
She thought about it, as she played with his small hand. “No, I don't think so.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he loves us too much to be too far away.” She paused. “Well, he loves me. You’re too much of a pest for that.”
“That’s mean,” he replied, halfheartedly, too tired to get up or to start bickering.
He didn't say anything for a beat or two, and then he mumbled, “I liked it when we went to see the wolves today. Spending time and being together—” He yawned. “It was nice.”
“I agree.”
“Do you think we’ll have more days like this?”
She hummed again. “At least one hundred.”
“Really?”
“Yes. We’ll have one hundred days like today.”
Right when Artemis thought that he finally fell asleep and she was already half dreaming, Apollo stirred again. “Why not one hundred and one?”
She laughed. “Then they’ll be one hundred and one.”
Artemis felt him shake from laughter, and despite wanting to poke him in the ribs for disturbing her so much, she smiled. Long after it quieted down, she thought restlessly about that day, about the warmth of the flames sinking into her bones and about the one that came from being so close to her family spreading in her chest.
“I hope you’ll be happy for at least two hundred more,” she said, squeezing his hand, but Apollo was already snoring.