[FIC] untitled Mask of Apollo ficlet

Title: Untitled (as of now)
Book: Mask of Apollo
Rating: G
Summary: Ficlet— young Dion meets an actor’s son.
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters and make no profit from them.
Author’s Notes: May or may not be part of a series, “Five Things That Never Happened to Niko and Dion.” ^_^


Dion looked around curiously as he accompanied the other young men from the Academy backstage after the last play, The Troiades, was finished. In Syracuse it would be considered scandalous for one of his station to be here—or it would, if anyone even considered it at all. Actors were summoned to entertain one’s guests; one did not mingle with them as if they were equals.

But the young men of Athens seemed perfectly at ease here, making their way past tables cluttered with costumes and props, calling out greetings to one friend or another. They quickly joined the crowd around the actors, congratulating them and slipping easily into the quick banter that filled the backstage with a cheerful clamor.

They appeared to have forgotten entirely about Dion, and he hesitated uncertainly for a moment before pressing forward to join them. He hadn’t taken two steps before he was distracted by a loud, wet sniffle from somewhere nearby. Looking around, he saw a small naked boy looking forlornly at the crowd. He was covered with what looked like blood, and Dion recognized the boy who had played Astyanax.

The boy sniffled again, then wiped his nose with the back of an already-wet hand, which he in turn wiped on his paint-covered side. The poor child looked so miserable that, after a moment, Dion knelt beside him and used the hem of his own robe to wipe the runny little face.

He was momentarily stunned as the boy turned, startled, and fixed large blue-gray eyes on the face of this unexpected consoler. Those eyes were wide and grateful, and seemed somehow more soulful than any child’s had a right to be.

Shaking off the moment of fancy, Dion wiped the boy’s face again. “Shouldn’t you be with your father, little boy?” he asked.

“He’s over there,” the child said, pointing at the thick crowd. “He was talking to his friends, and then I went away, and now I can’t see him anymore.”

“What is your father’s name?”

“Artemidoros.”

Dion raised an eyebrow, looking again at the crowd and then back at the boy. “The actor who played Cassandra today?”

The boy nodded. “And Andromache, and Helen,” he added proudly. He seemed quite at ease with the idea of having a father who pretended to be his mother instead, or a mad priestess, or a legendary beauty. Dion had to smile in amusement; it seemed this child was already an old hand at the theater.

“And what is your name?”

“Niko. Nikeratos.”

“Well, Nikeratos, I think that it’s high time to return you to your father. Shall we go find him?”

Nikeratos nodded again, smiling gratefully.

Dion took the boy by the hand and pressed through the crowd, using his broad shoulders to push a path through while nodding politely at those he passed.

“Father!” Nikeratos exclaimed at last, latching on to the robe of one of the men.

“Niko! Do you still have that blood-paint on?” The man put his hand on his son’s head and looked him over. “We need to clean you up and get you dressed. Excuse me,” he said, nodding goodbye to his friends.

“Father, this man helped me find you! I couldn’t find you, but then he saw me and he took me here!” Nikeratos said, pointing at Dion.

“Thank you very much.” Artemidoros said, nodding distractedly to Dion, already herding his son towards a dressing room.

“Thank you!” Nikeratos called back to Dion, giving his savior one last adoring look over his shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” Dion replied softly, raising his hand in farewell. A rare smile stole across his normally grave face, and stayed there all the way back to the Academy.