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“Papa, papa!”
Apollo looks up as Asclepius comes running into the temple, something held in both hands and clutched to his chest.
“What is it, sweetness?”
“He's hurt!” the boy exclaims, eyes wide and anxious. “Can you save him?”
Asclepius's hands part carefully, and Apollo sees what he's holding: a brown songbird, feathers ruffled and spotted with blood, an arrow protruding from one wing.
“Let me see.” Apollo gently takes the bird in his own hands. It flutters fearfully, and he uses the barest trickle of his power to soothe it. Once it stills, he folds out the injured wing and takes a look. The wound is clean and simple, and he nods. Apollo is healing and plague, firelight and inferno – he could heal an entire flock with barely a blink. And he would do anything for his son.
He snaps the arrowhead off and smoothly pulls both parts from the creature's wing, soothing is again when it twitches in pain. Then he lays his fingers over the wound and watches as flesh effortlessly knits back together and feathers right themselves. A final pulse of renewed vigor into the little bird, and it lifts from his hands and flies out the door, good as new, already singing again.
Asclepius's eyes are bright with awe. “Wow! I wish I could do that.”
Apollo smiles and ruffles the boy's golden hair. “You could heal without having power like mine. I could teach you.”
“Oh, yes, papa, please!” Asclepius is nearly jumping up and down with excitement.
“Very well. Perhaps your skills will even rival mine one day.”