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The infirmary smelled of iodine and resentment. Will Solace wiped his hands on his apron for the third time in as many minutes, even though they were clean—he just needed something to do. Across the room, Apollo Lester, once the sun god and archer, pretended to read a battered Harry Potter book upside down. His knee bounced under the cot, restless.
"You’re not subtle," Will said, tossing bandages into a cabinet with a clang. Apollo flinched. "Or quiet. Or cooperative."
Apollo turned a page slowly. "Funny. I don’t recall signing any contracts."
"You don’t have contracts. You have third-degree burns." Will jabbed a finger at the angry red streaks creeping up Apollo’s forearms, leftover souvenirs from yesterday’s disastrous chariot experiment. "And if you think I’m letting you walk out of here with your skin peeling off like bad wallpaper,"
Apollo snapped the book shut, "I don't need your permission, Will. I'm not a child." His voice used to be the kind that could make hurricanes pause. Now, it only made Will clench his jaw.
"You're right, even though you have the body of one. You're not." Will said, turning to rifle through a drawer with more force than strictly necessary. "Children actually listen when they're told not to play with unstable Greek fire." He pulled out a jar of salve, the glass clinking against his rings. "You, on the other hand, just,"
The infirmary door slammed open. Artemis stood framed in the doorway, her silver parka dusted with snowflakes despite it being July. Her hunting boots left muddy prints on the clean tile floor as she strode forward. Apollo’s knee stopped bouncing mid-air.
"Will," Artemis said without turning. Her voice was calm, the kind of calm that made small animals freeze mid-step. "Leave us."
"Arty? How are you here? Didn't fath-Zeus say the gods can't help me?" Apollo said, clearly confused. Will hesitated, the jar of salve still clutched in his hands. Apollo's fingers twitched toward the bandages on his forearms, then stopped.
Artemis didn't answer immediately. She shrugged off her parka and hung it on the infirmary door's hook with deliberate care. The snowflakes melted instantly against the warmth of the room, leaving tiny dark spots on the fabric. Will hesitated, glancing between the siblings, one twitchy and defensive, the other terrifyingly still.
"You're dismissed, Will," Artemis said again, softer this time. Will swallowed hard, set the salve down on the nearest cot with a quiet clink, and backed out of the infirmary like he was retreating from a sleeping dragon. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Apollo alone with his sister, and the distinct, prickling sense that he was about to be scolded like a misbehaving satyr.
Artemis turned to him, her dark eyes unreadable. She reached into the pocket of her snow-damp jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, Will’s handwriting scrawled across it in frantic, ink-smudged lines. He’s not healing. He won’t let me touch the burns. I think he’s trying to punish himself. Please, my lady, he’ll die if,
Apollo lunged for it, but Artemis held it just out of reach with the effortless precision of someone who'd spent millennia dodging his theatrics. The parchment crinkled in her grip as she folded it once, twice, then tucked it back into her pocket with deliberate slowness. "Interesting," she said, her voice deceptively mild. "Will Solace writes with remarkably steady hands for someone who, according to this, watched you peel your own skin off with a butter knife yesterday."
Apollo’s fingers twitched toward his bandaged forearms again before he caught himself and crossed them tightly over his chest instead. "It wasn’, that’s dramatic. It was a scalpel. And I was sterilizing. I'm the God of medicine. I was using the scalpel to remove the burnt skin."
Artemis arched one eyebrow, the same expression she'd used when he'd tried to convince her centaurs were just "really ambitious horses." Just because he lost to one. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Apollo could hear the distant sounds of campers sparring outside, the occasional thunk of arrows hitting targets. Normal noises. Human noises.
"You're not the God of medicine right now," Artemis said finally. She stepped closer, and Apollo had to resist the instinct to back up, a habit left over from centuries of sibling spats. "You're Lester Papadopoulos. Mortal. Pathetic. And currently," she reached out, snagged the edge of his bandage with two fingers, and yanked, "a liar."
The fabric came away with a wet peel, revealing raw, weeping flesh beneath. Apollo hissed through his teeth. The burns were worse than Will had let on, angry red tendrils spiraling up to his elbows, blisters burst and crusted with makeshift poultices that smelled suspiciously like crushed aspirin and honey. Artemis' nostrils flared. "You idiot," she breathed, and for the first time, Apollo heard it, the crack in her voice, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she dropped the ruined bandage to the floor.
Apollo opened his mouth, to deflect, to joke, to lie, but Artemis cut him off with a look so sharp it could’ve flayed him anew. "Don’t." She grabbed his wrist, her grip just shy of bone-crushing, and dragged him toward the nearest cot. Apollo stumbled, hissing as his raw skin stretched. "Sit."
He sat.
Artemis rummaged through Will’s supplies with the ruthless efficiency of someone who’d stitched up more arrow wounds than most gods had fired arrows. She came back with a bottle of saline, gauze, and that same jar of salve Will had left behind. Apollo eyed it warily. “That’s not going to,”
“If you say ‘hurt,’ I’m adding lemon juice to it,” Artemis said, unscrewing the lid. The salve smelled like aloe and something earthy, chamomile, maybe. Apollo hadn’t realized Will knew how to make poultices the old way. Artemis dipped two fingers into the jar, scooped out a glob, and held it up between them like a threat. “Arms. Now.”
Apollo hesitated, then uncrossed them with a wince. The air stung against the open burns. Artemis didn’t wait for permission. She smeared the salve over his forearm in one brutal swipe, and Apollo’s entire body locked up, his free hand gripping the cot’s edge hard enough to splinter the wood. “Fuck,” he gasped, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “That’s, that’s mint,”
“And honey. And sulfur.” Artemis didn’t slow down, working the mixture into the worst of the burns with the same merciless precision she’d use skinning a deer. Apollo’s breath came in short, ragged bursts. “Will’s recipe. He learned it from you, you know. Back when you were still divine enough to heal with a touch.”
Apollo squeezed his eyes shut as the salve burned deeper, the mint searing through layers of raw flesh like liquid fire. His fingers dug into the cot’s edge, splinters biting into his palm. "That’s, hah, not how I taught him," he gritted out, voice cracking.
Artemis paused just long enough to flick him between the eyebrows. "No. You taught him to be gentle." Her fingers resumed their work, pressing the poultice into a burst blister with clinical detachment. Apollo jerked, but her grip on his wrist was unrelenting. "Will is gentle. You? You’re just stubborn."
A choked laugh escaped Apollo’s throat. "Takes one to know, ah, one."
Artemis’s fingers stilled. For a heartbeat, the only sound was Apollo’s ragged breathing and the distant thwack of an arrow hitting straw outside. Then she leaned in, so close her braid brushed his scorched forearm. “You think this is funny?” she murmured. The words were soft, but the undercurrent was pure tempered steel. “Watching your mortal body rot off your bones because you’re too proud to let a child help you?”
Apollo’s smile withered. He flexed his fingers against the splintered cot, avoiding her gaze. “I’m not,”
“Dying?” Artemis snatched the saline bottle, uncapped it with her teeth, and upended it over his arm without warning. Apollo arched off the cot with a strangled noise as the liquid hit raw nerves. “Because you are.” She tossed the empty bottle aside, catching a stray droplet of saline on her thumb and flicking it at his nose. “Slowly. Stupidly. And painfully avoidable.”
Apollo blinked saltwater from his lashes, his breath hitching as she wound fresh gauze around his forearm with punishing tightness. “I’ve survived worse,” he muttered, flexing his fingers against the bandage’s pull.
Artemis’s hands stilled. The sudden quiet was worse than the burn of the salve. When she spoke, her voice was dangerously quiet. “Not like this. Not helpless.” She tied off the bandage with a sharp jerk. “Not when you have people who,” The words caught. She cleared her throat, reached for the salve jar again. “You don’t get to do this to him.”
Apollo frowned. “To Will?”
Artemis’s fingers tightened around the salve jar. The glass groaned under the pressure. "Yes, to Will," she hissed, like the name was a blade she wanted to plunge somewhere soft. "You think this is just about your pride? Your stupid, mortal pride?" She stabbed a finger toward the infirmary door, where Will’s footsteps had long since faded. "That boy has spent three nights straight grinding herbs into paste with his bare hands because you won’t let him touch you. He’s twelve, Apollo."
Apollo flinched. "He’s sixteen,"
"And you’re four thousand," Artemis snapped. "Act like it." She yanked his other arm forward, peeling off the bandage with the same ruthless efficiency. Apollo bit down on a whimper as the gauze tugged at half-formed scabs. "You don’t get to martyr yourself on his watch. Not when he’s the only reason you’re still breathing."
The salve hit his fresh wounds like a branding iron. Apollo’s vision whited out for a second, his free hand scrabbling at the cot’s edge until wood splintered under his nails. "I’m trying,"
Artemis caught his wrist mid-jerk, her grip colder than the snow melting on her parka. "Stop squirming," she said, pressing his palm flat against the cot. Apollo's fingers twitched against hers, half instinct to pull away, half something older, something that remembered her holding his hand as they fled Tartarus's echoes eons ago. "This isn't punishment. It's salvage."
Apollo barked a laugh that tasted like blood; he'd bitten his cheek. "Could've fooled me."
The salve jar clinked as Artemis dug out another glob. She worked it into the meat of his palm where the burns ran deepest, her thumbs circling in a motion that was almost tender beneath the brutality. Apollo's breath hitched. It hurt, but
"Remember the Lernaean Hydra?" Artemis said abruptly.
Apollo blinked at the sudden shift in topic. The Hydra? That had been centuries ago, back when heroes were still carved from marble and myths hadn’t yet fossilized into bedtime stories. "The one with the... regeneration issue?" he ventured, flexing his fingers as Artemis pressed salve into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. The motion sent fresh pain lancing up his arm.
Artemis snorted. "The one you set on fire because you couldn’t be bothered to let Heracles finish his labor properly." Her fingers dug into a particularly vicious blister, making Apollo suck air through his teeth. "You remember what happened after?"
Apollo grimaced. "It grew back seven heads."
"Eight," Artemis corrected. She flipped his hand over, exposing the raw skin of his wrist. Apollo hissed as the salve hit fresh nerve endings. "And each one was more venomous than the last. Because you didn’t stop." Her thumbnail scraped a fleck of dead skin away with clinical precision. "Sound familiar?"
Apollo's wrist twitched in Artemis's grip. "That's not,"
Artemis pressed her thumb into the center of his palm, right where the burn was worst. Apollo's breath stuttered. "Eight heads," she repeated, softer now. "Because you wouldn't let Iolaus cauterize the stumps. You had to do it yourself. With Greek fire."
The memory burned sharper than the salve. Apollo's fingers curled involuntarily. He'd been younger then, not in years, but in arrogance. The Hydra had been a game. A spectacle. Until it wasn't.
Artemis's voice pulled him back. "You're doing it again."
Apollo's fingers spasmed in Artemis's grip. The infirmary air suddenly felt too thick, too warm, like the moment before a lightning strike. "That was different," he muttered, but the words tasted weak even to him. The Hydra's venom had eaten through his sandals that day, leaving his feet scarred for decades. He'd laughed it off. Gods healed. Mortals didn't.
Artemis's fingers stilled on his wrist. When she spoke, her voice was softer than he'd heard in centuries. "No, it isn't." She reached up, brushed a sweaty curl off his forehead with the back of her hand, a gesture so startlingly gentle that Apollo almost flinched. Her fingers came away damp. "You're burning up."
Apollo swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. The admission hovered between them, that he was mortal now, that fever could kill him as easily as a stray arrow. That Will had been right.
Artemis exhaled sharply through her nose, then reached for the roll of gauze with renewed purpose.
Artemis wound the last strip of gauze around Apollo’s wrist with a finality that brooked no argument. The bandage was tight enough to make his fingers tingle, whether from the pressure or the salve’s lingering burn, he couldn’t tell. She capped the jar with a decisive click and stood, brushing nonexistent dust off her jeans. "Sleep," she said, as if it were an order rather than a suggestion.
Apollo blinked up at her, sweat beading along his hairline. "Now?"
"Yes, now." Artemis snatched the spare blanket from the foot of the cot and shook it out with a snap that sent dust motes spiraling. "You’re feverish, you’re exhausted, and you’ve spent the last three days pretending your nerves aren’t screaming loud enough to wake the dead." She draped the blanket over his legs with surprising care, tucking the edges around his calves like he was nine again and she’d just dragged him out of a snowdrift. "Nap. Then we’ll talk."
Apollo’s fingers twitched against the fresh bandages. "That sounds suspiciously like a threat."
Artemis straightened, her silhouette cutting a sharp line against the infirmary’s afternoon light. "Call it a promise," she said, and the way her fingers lingered on the blanket’s edge, knuckles brushing his shin, was almost tender. Almost. Apollo knew better. That touch was the same one she’d used right before shoving him off Olympus that time he’d "borrowed" her favorite bow.
He swallowed. "You’re staying?"
Artemis arched one eyebrow. "You think I trust you not to bolt the second I turn my back?" She kicked the leg of the cot, rattling the frame. "Sleep. Or I’ll dose your water with willow bark and make you."
Apollo opened his mouth to protest, to quip, to lie, but the exhaustion hit him like a collapsing column. His eyelids dragged downward, heavy as temple stones. The salve’s burn had dulled to a throbbing ache, and suddenly the cot felt softer than any godly chariot. He blinked up at Artemis, her face blurring at the edges. "You’re worse than Hera," he muttered, the words slurring.
Artemis watched Apollo’s eyelids flutter shut with the slow, reluctant surrender of a dying firefly. His breathing evened out, the tension in his shoulders unraveling inch by inch until his head lolled to the side, his cheek pressing into the thin infirmary pillow. She waited a full minute, sixty measured seconds, before reaching out and flicking his forehead with her thumbnail. He didn’t stir. Good.
The infirmary clock ticked. Artemis pulled the stool closer to the cot, the legs scraping against tile with a sound that would’ve sent Apollo bolting upright if he weren’t already halfway to the Underworld in sleep. She sat, propped one boot on the cot’s edge, and studied her brother’s bandaged hands. The gauze was already spotting with salve and something darker, blood, maybe, or the ghost of divinity seeping through mortal skin.
Will’s note crinkled in her pocket as she shifted. She pulled it out, smoothed the creases against her knee, and reread it by the thin light filtering through the infirmary’s dusty windows. Oh, how angry she was when she heard what Zeus did. Without her mother, Leto by her side, she would've started a riot and killed Zeus already.
Everything went through her mind at the time. What if Apollo had gotten hurt? Or had he died already? Perhaps Apollo was panicking and calling for Artemis? Yet, Zeus made her thoughts worse when he said the gods couldn't help him.
Although Zeus didn't say they couldn't help him if they were called by someone near him.
Artemis waited until Apollo’s breathing settled into the slow, shallow rhythm of exhaustion before leaning forward. Her braid slipped over her shoulder, brushing his bandaged forearm as she murmured, "Sleep now, philatos. Wake up to consequences." The endearment was sharp as a blade, something she hadn’t called him since they were children hiding from Hera’s wrath in a laurel grove.
The infirmary door creaked open a sliver. Will’s freckled nose and one anxious eye appeared in the gap. Artemis didn’t turn. "He’s alive," she said, too quietly to disturb Apollo’s feverish sleep. "Mostly."
Will slipped inside, his sneakers silent on the tile. He hovered near the foot of the cot, fingers twisting in his apron strings. "I didn’t know you were coming," he whispered. "I just, the note,"
Artemis held up a hand. Will’s mouth snapped shut. She studied him for a long moment, the shadows under his eyes, the raw patches on his knuckles from crushing herbs without gloves. Sixteen going on forty. "You did well," she said at last. Will blinked, his shoulders loosening half an inch. Artemis tilted her head toward the door. "Go eat something that isn’t infirmary toast. I’ll handle the rest."
The first thing Apollo registered when he woke was the smell of burnt sugar. His tongue felt too thick, his eyelids gummed shut with sleep and something stickier, honey, maybe, or the remnants of fever sweat. He tried to lift his hand to rub his eyes, but his wrist caught on something warm and unyielding.
"Don't," Artemis said, her voice closer than expected. Apollo peeled his eyes open to find her perched on the edge of the cot, one hand pinning his bandaged wrist to the mattress. A clay cup steamed in her other hand, the scent of over-steeped chamomile rising in lazy curls. "Drink this first."
Apollo's nose wrinkled. "Is that,"
"My fifth attempt at mortal tea-making? Yes." Artemis shoved the cup into his free hand, her fingers lingering just long enough to ensure he wouldn't drop it. The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. "I used enough honey to drown a satyr. Drink it anyway."
Apollo snorted into the tea, sending droplets spattering across his bandages. "You're joking."
Artemis leaned back, bracing her palms on the cot's edge. The frame groaned under her weight. "Do I look like I'm joking?" Moonlight, impossible, since it was barely dusk, filtered through the infirmary windows, etching silver along the blade-sharp line of her jaw.
The cup trembled in Apollo's grip. He willed it steadily, but his hands had never been good at listening to him. "You can't possibly think,"
"That I'd let you off easy?" Artemis plucked the teacup from his shaking fingers before it could spill. The liquid inside had gone cold, a film of honey congealing at the bottom like amber. She set it aside with deliberate care, the ceramic clinking against the nightstand. "You lost that privilege when Will found you trying to cauterize your own wounds with a butter knife heated over a candle."
Apollo's stomach dropped. He hadn't realized Will had seen that particular incident, had hoped the locked infirmary door and hastily extinguished candle meant it would stay between him and the shameful smear of butter on his borrowed camp t-shirt. The memory sent phantom pain lancing up his forearms, worse than the actual burns. He'd lasted exactly three seconds before passing out from the pain, waking to find the candle overturned and Will's panicked fingers pressing a cold compress to his forehead.
Artemis stood abruptly, the stool legs shrieking against the tile. Apollo flinched at the sound. "Lie down," she said, jerking her chin toward the pillow. When he hesitated, her eyes flashed silver-bright in the dim infirmary light. "Now."
The command hit Apollo's spine like a plucked bowstring. He sank back against the thin mattress before his conscious mind caught up, his bandaged arms thumping uselessly at his sides. Artemis watched him settle with the predatory patience of a wolf circling wounded prey.
Artemis didn’t give him time to brace. One moment, Apollo was blinking up at her, the next, she’d seized his shoulder and flipped him onto his stomach with the same practiced efficiency she’d use pinning a boar for slaughter. The cot groaned under their combined weight. Apollo’s bandaged wrists scrabbled at the sheets, but Artemis planted a knee between his shoulder blades, her weight just shy of crushing.
“What in Tartarus,” Apollo’s indignant yelp was cut short as Artemis yanked down the waistband of his borrowed camp shorts with a single ruthless tug. The infirmary air bit at newly exposed skin. Apollo’s entire body stiffened. “Artemis, you cannot be serious,”
The first smack landed with a crack that echoed off the infirmary walls. Apollo’s breath left him in a shocked oof. The pain was sharp, bright, nothing at all like the dull throb of his burns. It was the kind of hurt that demanded immediate, undivided attention.
“Ow! What the fuck?” Apollo twisted, but Artemis’s grip on the back of his neck was unyielding. Her palm came down again, this time on the opposite cheek, with the same merciless precision. Apollo kicked, his heel connecting with the cot’s frame hard enough to rattle the IV stand. “Stop! I’m four thousand years old,”
“Then act like it.” Artemis punctuated each word with another stinging slap. Apollo’s thighs pressed together instinctively, his toes curling against the scratchy infirmary sheets. “You’re not a god right now,” she continued, her voice low and steady despite the increasing pinkness of Apollo’s backside. “But you’re still my brother. Which means I get to do this the second you start acting like a suicidal idiot.”
Apollo opened his mouth to argue, to curse, to plead, but the next smack stole his voice. His fingers clawed at the mattress, the gauze on his wrists fraying from friction. The rhythm was relentless: left, right, left again, until the entire lower half of his body felt like he’d sat in a nest of hornets.
Somewhere between the twelfth and fifteenth hit, the pain blurred into something almost bearable, or maybe his nervous system had simply given up. Artemis paused, her palm hovering. Apollo sucked in a ragged breath, expecting reprieve.
He was wrong.
Her hand descended again, this time with the crisp, methodical pacing of a metronome. Each smack landed precisely where the last had, layering the sting until Apollo’s skin burned hotter than his neglected wounds ever had. He bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.
"Still think you're invincible?" Artemis asked, her voice deceptively calm. She landed two rapid-fire swats to his sit-spots that made his legs jerk. Apollo squeezed his eyes shut. Mortal bodies were weak, weak and traitorous and loud. His backside throbbed in time with his pulse, radiating heat like a second fever. He gritted his teeth. She wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing him,
The sharp crack of wood splitting air cut through his thoughts a fraction of a second before agony exploded across his backside. Apollo arched off the cot with a strangled cry. Artemis caught his wrists and pinned them. Cold dread pooled in his stomach—he recognized that burn.
"You kept one?" he gasped, craning his neck to see the ruler, his ruler, the one he'd carved from sacred olive wood millennia ago as a joke gift after catching her measuring arrow shafts with her fingers. The wood was darker now, polished smooth by centuries of use, but the sunburst engraving near the handle was unmistakable.
Artemis flexed the ruler against her palm with a practiced flick. "Never leave a weapon behind." She brought it down again in a searing line across both cheeks. Apollo's knees slammed together. "Especially," whack, "not," whack, "yours." The last stroke landed dead center, igniting a wildfire of pain that had Apollo's toes curling into the sheets.
The ruler was singing now, not the dull thud of wood on flesh, but the vicious hiss of olive wood remembering its purpose. Apollo choked on air. Every nerve ending from his thighs to his lower back was screaming in perfect harmony. He'd made this ruler to measure constellations, not this, not the way it split the air like a lyre string snapping mid-performance.
Artemis adjusted her grip, her thumb brushing the sunburst engraving. "Count."
Apollo barely got "One" out before the next stroke bit into him, hard enough to leave parallel lines of fire. "T-two," His voice cracked. The ruler landed again before he could inhale, this time lower, where his thighs met the curve of his ass. White spots danced behind his eyelids. "Three!"
Will's footsteps skidded to a halt outside the infirmary door. Artemis didn't pause. The fourth stroke landed diagonal across the first three, crossing the welts like she was carving her disapproval into his skin. Apollo's hips jerked. "F-four,"
The door creaked open. Will's gasp was audible, followed by the clatter of a tray hitting the floor. Artemis didn't turn. "Close the door, Will," she said, punctuating the command with another searing stroke. Apollo's fingers spasmed against his back. "Five!"
To his credit, Will only hesitated for half a second before kicking the door shut with his heel. The ruler cracked down again, this time higher, catching the sensitive undercurve where Apollo's cheeks met his thighs. He kicked backward instinctively, his heel connecting with empty air. "Six!"
Artemis hummed, low and considering. Apollo felt the ruler tap against his blazing skin, once, twice,
Apollo's voice cracked on "Seven!" as the ruler landed diagonally across the welts already rising on his skin. The eighth stroke came before he could catch his breath, a searing stripe that made his toes curl into the infirmary sheets. "Eight!" He gasped, fingers scrabbling against his own sweat-slick back.
The ninth hit was worse. Artemis angled the ruler downward, catching the tender crease where thigh met buttock. Apollo's entire body jerked like a marionette with its strings cut. "Nine!" His voice was raw now, stripped of any pretense of dignity. The ruler hovered, taunting, over skin that pulsed with heat.
Then it struck.
Apollo's vision whited out for a second. "T-ten!" he choked out, his voice breaking on the last syllable. His thighs trembled violently, knees pressing together as if that could somehow shield him.
The silence after "ten" was worse than the ruler. Apollo could hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest. Sweat cooled on his back where Artemis’s knee pinned him. The ruler tapped a slow, warning rhythm.
Then fingers hooked into the waistband of his shorts.
Apollo's entire body went rigid. "Wait, wait,"
The fabric slid down his hips with a single ruthless tug, taking his underwear with it. The infirmary air hit newly exposed skin like a slap of its own. Apollo's breath stuttered. He'd been naked in front of gods and mortals alike for millennia, but this? This was different. This was Artemis, with her clinical detachment and the scent of crushed mint still clinging to her fingers.
Apollo's breath hitched as the fabric pooled around his knees, the sudden exposure making his skin prickle. The ruler tapped once against the crest of his left cheek, a warning.
“Ten,” Artemis said coolly.
Apollo gasped, voice breaking. He thought it was over, but Artemis’s grip didn’t loosen. “We’re not done,” she murmured, and the ruler landed again—hard and merciless. “Eleven.”
Apollo’s legs jerked, too spent to argue. “Twelve.”
His voice was a ragged whisper, the numbers and pain blurring together.
Artemis adjusted her grip on the ruler, her fingers brushing the sunburst engraving with deliberate familiarity. "You lost many privileges when you tried to negotiate," she said, her voice chillingly calm. The ruler tapped against his throbbing skin, once, twice, before descending again with merciless accuracy.
Apollo's breath hitched as the thirteenth stroke bit into untouched territory, igniting fresh agony. His legs kicked involuntarily, heels drumming against the cot's frame. "Thirteen!" he gasped, voice breaking. Sweat dripped down his temples, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone.
Somewhere behind them, Will made a choked sound, half horror, half fascination. Artemis didn't so much as glance his way. Her focus remained absolute, her strokes measured and deliberate, each one layering pain with the precision of a sculptor chiseling marble.
The ruler tapped again, slow, deliberate, against Apollo's left thigh where it trembled against the cot. His skin burned hotter than his neglected wounds ever had, every welt throbbing in perfect time with his pulse. He could feel Artemis shifting behind him, her knee digging harder between his shoulder blades as she adjusted her grip on the ruler. The wood hummed against his skin, still vibrating from the last stroke.
Apollo squeezed his eyes shut. "Eleven," he gasped before the ruler even landed, a preemptive surrender.
It didn't save him.
The olive wood cracked down diagonally across fresh skin, igniting a wildfire so intense Apollo swore he could smell singed linen. "Fourteen!" The number tore from his throat like splintered wood, rough-edged and raw. His thighs quivered against the cot, knees pressing together in a futile attempt to shield himself, as if mortal flesh could withstand Artemis's wrath when even divine power had failed.
Artemis paused, the ruler humming an inch above Apollo's blazing skin. "Wrong." Her voice was glacier-calm. "You skipped twelve."
Apollo's stomach dropped. He hadn't, he'd sworn, but the ruler didn't wait for his denial. It landed with a thwick that sounded suspiciously like a bowstring releasing, striking the exact spot where his thigh met the curve of his ass. Apollo's vision whited out for a heartbeat. "Fifteen!" he gasped, the number half-sob. He couldn't tell if he had said fifteen or twelve.
Somewhere near the door, Will made a noise like a stepped-on mouse. Artemis ignored it. Her braid slithered over her shoulder as she leaned down, her breath brushing Apollo's ear. "You think this is punishment?" The ruler tapped once, light as a moth's wing, against the highest welt. "This is accounting."
Apollo's fingers dug into the mattress as the ruler tapped again, slow, deliberate, against his already throbbing skin. "Start from ten again." She said. The scent of willow bark and crushed herbs hung thick in the infirmary air, mingling with the tang of sweat and something sharper, metallic. Fear. His own.
"Ten," Apollo gasped, the word ragged as the fraying edges of his bandages.
Artemis hummed, the sound vibrating through the ruler still pressed against his heated flesh. "Good boy." The praise was a blade wrapped in silk, sweet enough to sting. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his borrowed camp shorts, nails scraping skin as she paused. "Now. Let's see if you can count higher."
The fabric slid down his hips with a single ruthless tug, taking his underwear with it. Apollo's breath hitched as cool infirmary air licked across freshly exposed skin. His thighs twitched, muscles contracting instinctively, not to escape, but to press together, to hide. Useless. Artemis's knee between his shoulder blades kept him splayed open like a pinned butterfly.
Apollo's fingers clawed at the mattress as Artemis dragged his shorts down past his thighs with one merciless tug. The fabric caught briefly on his knees, then nothing. Cold infirmary air rushed against bare skin, raising goosebumps along his overheated flesh.
"Eleven," Artemis announced, as casually as discussing moon phases. The ruler tapped once against his exposed backside, the wood unnervingly warm from prior strokes.
Apollo's breath hitched. "We agreed on ten," Artemis tilted her head, mockingly. "When?"
The ruler cracked down before he could finish, striking virgin territory just below the previous welts. Apollo's knees skidded apart on the infirmary sheets, his fingers twisting in the thin blanket. "Eleven!" he gasped, voice cracking like a lyre string.
The twelfth stroke landed with a thwick that sounded suspiciously like a bowstring snapping. Apollo's breath stuttered, then broke.
A hot, wet drop splattered against the infirmary sheets. Then another.
Apollo froze. Mortal bodies betrayed in ways divine ones never could, the way his throat clenched around a sob before his mind could catch up, the way his vision blurred without permission. His fingers spasmed against the mattress, nails catching on loose threads. He'd endured being flayed alive by Python, had laughed through Hera's curses, but this?
Artemis's ruler hovered, tapping once against the crest of his right cheek where the skin had gone from pink to an angry, throbbing red. Apollo squeezed his eyes shut. Another tear escaped, tracking down his nose to drip onto the sheets.
"Twelve," Artemis said, her voice softer now, not gentle, never gentle, but edged with something Apollo hadn't heard since they'd hidden in Leto's skirts during a thunderstorm. The ruler cracked down, but the force had shifted, less a punishment now than a punctuation mark. Apollo's breath hitched. "Twelve," he gasped, the word thick with unshed tears.
Behind them, Will made a sound like a wounded animal. Apollo couldn't see him, didn't want to see him, but he heard the rustle of fabric as the healer stepped closer. Artemis didn't turn. "Breathe," she murmured, pressing the ruler flat against Apollo's trembling thighs. The wood was warm now, almost comforting in its familiarity. "Just breathe."
Apollo did, inhaling sharply through his nose, exhaling through clenched teeth. The air smelled of crushed herbs and salt. His own tears, he realized distantly. Mortal tears. Weak. Human.
The ruler tapped again, lighter this time. Apollo braced, but the stroke never came. Instead, Artemis's fingers brushed the highest welt, just once, before withdrawing.
Something in Apollo's chest cracked open like an overripe pomegranate.
He didn't sob. Gods didn't sob, but the wet, hiccuping gasp that tore from his throat might as well have been one. Another tear escaped, then another, dripping onto the infirmary sheets in silent splatters. His shoulders shook with the effort of containing it, bandages rasping against the mattress.
Artemis sighed, the same exhausted sound she'd made when he'd tracked Nemean lion blood across her favorite hunting cloak three centuries ago. The ruler clattered to the floor. Her palm settled between his shoulder blades, warm and heavy as sunlight.
"You're an idiot," she said, but her fingers carded through his tangled curls with the same absent tenderness as when she'd plucked arrowheads from his hair after their first boar hunt. Apollo shuddered. The scent of crushed mint and damp linen filled his nose as Artemis leaned down, her braid brushing his fever-hot cheek. "Breathe, phoîbos."
The childhood nickname undid him. Apollo's face crumpled. He turned his head into the pillow just as the dam broke, ugly, wet sobs wracking his body in waves that hurt more than the ruler had. Mortal lungs burned. Mortal throats ached. Mortal tears left salt trails that stung his sunburned cheeks.
Artemis didn't flinch. Her palm moved in slow circles between his shoulder blades, the pressure just shy of painful. "There," she murmured when his breathing hitched too long. "Like drawing a bow." Her fingers tapped a rhythm against his spine, the same one she'd used to teach him archery as a child. Inhale on three. Exhale on release.
Apollo choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. His nose was running. His eyes felt scraped raw. And yet, Artemis's knee still pinned him to the cot, her other hand now methodically smoothing his hair back from his damp forehead. The contradiction made his chest ache.
Will chose that moment to clear his throat. Apollo froze mid-inhale, humiliation flooding his veins like ichor. The healer stood frozen by the door, a fresh roll of bandages clutched to his chest like a shield. His eyes darted between Apollo's tear-streaked face and the ruler abandoned on the floor.
Artemis didn't turn. "Tea," she said, the single word sharp as a hunting knife. Will bolted.
The door hadn't fully closed before Apollo's shoulders hunched again. He bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, useless. Another sob tore free, muffled against the pillow. Mortal lungs burned. Mortal pride shattered. His fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles whitening against frayed gauze.
Artemis sighed, that ancient, bone-deep exhale reserved exclusively for him. Her knee lifted from between his shoulder blades. Apollo flinched at the sudden absence of pressure, bracing for what? Another strike? Scorn? The rustle of her leaving?
Fingers hooked under his chin instead.
Apollo resisted for half a second before letting her turn his face toward her. Artemis's calloused thumb brushed the salt tracks from his cheeks with a precision that recalled her arrow-fletching rituals. Moonlight caught the silver scars crisscrossing her palms, old wounds from the Python siege, back when she'd fought through Tartarus itself to drag his half-eaten corpse home.
"Up," she ordered, but the word lacked its usual edge. Her fingers slid beneath his arms, hauling him upright with the same effortless strength she'd used to carry him out of battlefields. Apollo's knees buckled; mortal legs weren't made for dignity. Artemis caught him by the shoulders, her grip shifting, not restraining now, but bracing. Holding.
Then she pulled him in.
Apollo stiffened. Artemis smelled of crushed pine needles and cold starlight, her braid scraping his cheek like a bowstring drawn taut. Her arms locked around his back, avoiding his burns with the same clinical care she'd use handling a wounded deer. Too stiff at first, then tighter, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades as if she could press their shared memories straight through his skin.
"You're an idiot," she muttered into his hair. The words vibrated against his temple, warmer than the infirmary's hearth. Apollo felt her exhale ripple through him, that particular sigh she reserved for when he'd done something spectacularly stupid but survivable. Her arms tightened incrementally, the way she'd once held him after he'd fallen from Olympus' lowest cloud while showing off for nymphs.
Apollo's breath hitched wetly against her collarbone. Mortal lungs were traitorous things, still shuddering with aftershocks. Artemis shifted her grip, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head. Her fingers caught in his tangled curls, the slight tug anchoring him to the present. He could feel the calluses on her palm, the same ones earned from millennia of bowstrings and his own poor life choices.
Somewhere beyond the haze of pain and salt, Apollo registered the dampness seeping through Artemis' tunic where his face pressed against her shoulder. The realization should have been mortifying. Instead, all he could muster was a weak twitch of fingers against her back, the motion stirring the frayed edges of his bandages. Artemis made a low noise in her throat, not quite disapproval, not quite comfort, and pressed her cheek to the top of his head.
"You smell like a tavern floor," she informed him, the words undercut by the way her thumb absently traced the curve of his ear. Apollo huffed something between a laugh and another sob, the vibration making his abused backside protest. Artemis' arms stiffened immediately. "Don't squirm," she ordered, but her hand resumed its path through his hair with deliberate gentleness.
Apollo exhaled shakily. The scent of crushed pine and cold starlight filled his nose, Artemis's scent, unchanged since the dawn of their existence. He let his forehead rest against her collarbone, ignoring the damp fabric sticking to his skin. Her heartbeat thudded steadily against his cheek, a rhythm older than time itself. Mortal ears weren't meant to hear divine pulses, but this close, even human senses could detect the familiar cadence.
Artemis shifted her weight, the cot creaking beneath them. Apollo winced as the movement jostled his freshly striped backside. Her grip tightened fractionally. "Still?" she asked, though the question held no trace of mockery, just clinical assessment. Apollo made a noncommittal noise into her shoulder. Artemis sighed, the same exasperated exhale she'd perfected during their first millennium, and adjusted her hold to redistribute his weight away from tender areas.
Somewhere beyond the infirmary walls, Apollo could hear the distant shouts of campers at the archery range. The familiarity of it, the mundanity, made his throat tighten again. Artemis' fingers paused mid-stroke through his hair. "Stop that," she muttered, but her palm settled warm and heavy against the nape of his neck, fingers kneading the tension there with practiced efficiency.
Apollo swallowed hard. Artemis had always known his tells, had known them before language existed, before the concept of tells had a name. Her fingers traced the knobs of his spine now with the same precision she'd once used to count his ribs after Python had cracked them open. "You're thinner," she observed, voice low. Apollo felt her fingertips linger over a prominent vertebra, counting, assessing. Her nails scraped lightly against his skin. "Stupid."
The insult landed softer than her ruler had. Apollo exhaled shakily, his breath stirring a loose thread on Artemis' tunic. The scent of crushed pine intensified; she must have been in the woods before coming here. He could picture her kneeling in the damp earth, fingers buried in the roots of some ancient tree, communing with the forest the way he used to commune with sunlight. The thought ached.
Artemis' thumb brushed the shell of his ear, once, twice, a rhythm older than Olympus. Apollo felt his eyelids grow heavy despite himself. The warmth of her body seeped into his, easing the chill that had settled in his bones since his fall from divinity. Mortal bodies were traitorous things, so quick to seek comfort even from the hand that had dealt the pain.
The door creaked open. Apollo stiffened instinctively, his fingers curling into Artemis' tunic. Will's footsteps faltered, then resumed, accompanied by the clink of ceramic and the herbal scent of steeping tea. Artemis didn't turn. "Set it there," she instructed, nodding toward the bedside table without loosening her grip on Apollo.
Will hesitated, Apollo could hear the way his sandals scuffed against the floorboards, but complied. The tray landed with a soft clatter, followed by the rustle of fabric as Will retreated toward the door. Artemis exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound Apollo recognized as her version of patience wearing thin. "Will."
The healer froze mid-step. "Yes, my lady?"
Artemis didn't loosen her grip on Apollo, but her voice softened incrementally. "Bring nectar. The proper kind."
Apollo felt Will's gaze flicker to him, could practically hear the unspoken question in the pause that followed. Artemis's fingers tightened in his hair, preemptively silencing any protest. Will swallowed audibly. "Yes, my lady," he repeated, the door clicking shut behind him with exaggerated care.
Silence settled over the infirmary, broken only by Apollo's unsteady breathing and the distant laughter of campers at the climbing wall. Artemis exhaled sharply, that particular sigh Apollo recognized as her recalibrating expectations. Her arms shifted around him, adjusting her grip with the same precision she'd use restringing a bow. One hand slid up to cradle the back of his head while the other pressed firm between his shoulder blades, holding him flush against her as she could physically weld his shattered pieces back together.
Apollo's breath hitched. Artemis smelled of crushed pine and cold starlight, unchanged since the dawn of their existence. Her braid scraped his cheek, rough as bowstring fibers. The familiarity of it undid him more thoroughly than the ruler had. He turned his face into her shoulder, inhaling sharply through his nose like she'd taught him during their first boar hunt. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Steady.
Artemis's thumb brushed the shell of his ear, once, twice, a rhythm older than Olympus itself. "You're thinner," she murmured against his temple, the observation sharp as any arrow tip. Her fingers traced the knobs of his spine with clinical precision, pausing over each protruding vertebra like tally marks. Apollo shivered under the scrutiny, mortification warring with something dangerously close to relief.
Her palm settled warm and heavy over the nape of his neck. "Stupid," she added, but the word landed softer than her ruler had, cushioned by the way her fingers carded through his tangled curls with absent familiarity, the same rhythm she'd used when untangling arrowheads from his hair after their first boar hunt. Apollo shuddered, his forehead pressing harder against her collarbone as if he could weld himself to her skeleton.
"Does that mean you have to go? Since you finished what you needed to do? I'm sure Zeus would be angry if you stayed here."
Artemis scoffed, the vibration traveling through Apollo's cheek where it rested against her sternum. "Zeus can choke on his own lightning." Her fingers tightened incrementally in his hair, not pulling, just there, an anchor point in the storm. "I'm not done."
Apollo's breath hitched wetly. The admission that she chose to stay was lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharper than any arrowhead. Artemis never lingered. Artemis left. That was their oldest truth, older than their names, older than Olympus itself.
Her thumb brushed the shell of his ear, once, twice, a rhythm older than language. "You're shaking," she observed, voice flat as a honed blade. Apollo hadn't noticed. Mortal bodies betrayed in ways divine ones never could, the fine tremors along his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against her tunic like wounded birds. Artemis exhaled sharply through her nose. "Drink your tea before it cools."
Apollo blinked. The ceramic cup materialized in his peripheral vision, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. Will must have left it on the bedside table during his retreat. The scent of crushed mint and something earthier, willow bark, maybe, drifted up, mingling with the ever-present campfire smell clinging to Artemis' clothes.
He reached for it automatically, fingers stuttering when the movement pulled at his welts. Artemis intercepted his wrist with effortless precision, redirecting his grip to cradle the cup properly. Her callouses scraped against his pulse point, the same roughness earned from bowstrings and his own poor life choices.
"Don't slouch," she ordered, but her palm pressed warm between his shoulder blades as he straightened, supporting more than correcting. Apollo inhaled sharply, through the nose, out through the mouth, just as she'd taught him during their first hunt. The tea scalded his tongue, bitter enough to make his eyes water. Artemis hummed approvingly when he didn't complain.
Her fingers carded through his hair again, methodical, rhythmic, working through the tangles with the same detached efficiency she'd use dressing a kill. Apollo shuddered when her nails scraped his scalp, the sensation skating down his spine. Artemis paused. "Sensitive?"
Apollo swallowed another mouthful of tea to avoid answering. The liquid burned all the way down, settling heavily in his stomach. Mortal digestion was such a process. Artemis's fingers resumed their path, gentler now, not soft, never soft, but adjusted. Apollo exhaled shakily, his forehead dropping against her collarbone again.
The door creaked open. Apollo stiffened, but Artemis didn't loosen her grip. Will shuffled in, clutching a golden goblet with both hands as it might bite. The scent of nectar, proper Olympian nectar, not the diluted camp version, filled the infirmary, thick as sunlight. Apollo's mouth watered despite himself.
Artemis extended a hand without looking. Will placed the goblet in her palm with exaggerated care, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment before recoiling. Apollo tracked the motion with narrowed eyes. Artemis ignored the exchange entirely, her focus laser-sharp on the way Apollo's fingers trembled around his teacup.
"Drink," she ordered, pressing the nectar to his lips. Apollo hesitated, divine nectar burned mortal throats, but Artemis tipped the goblet before he could protest. The liquid hit his tongue like liquid sunlight, familiar and foreign all at once. His mortal taste buds couldn't process the complexity, but his soul recognized the flavor of home. Apollo choked, golden liquid dribbling down his chin.
Artemis clicked her tongue, the same sound she'd made when he'd spilled wine on her favorite chiton in 432 BCE. Her thumb swiped the nectar from his jaw with brusque efficiency. "Slowly," she admonished, but her grip on the goblet adjusted to accommodate his shaking hands. Apollo inhaled sharply through his nose, in, two, three, just like she'd taught him during Python's siege. The second sip went down smoother.
Will hovered near the foot of the cot, twisting his bandage roll into a nervous spiral. "Oh, also, listen to your son. He's technically older than you now."
Artemis shot him a look sharp enough to flay flesh. Apollo snorted into the nectar, the sound wetter than he'd intended. Will's grin flashed bright before evaporating under Artemis's glare. The door clicked shut behind him with exaggerated care.
Silence settled over them, thick as the nectar's scent. Apollo stared at the golden residue coating the ceramic cup, tracing the way it clung to the glaze. Mortal vision couldn't see the divine particles suspended within, but the way they caught the light, that, he remembered. Artemis's sigh ruffled his hair, warmer than he expected.