First piece of AA fanfiction in a LONG time, I hope I haven't lost my touch!

Thalassa

I have a confession to make...

It was twenty-two, twenty-three years ago now. I was nineteen years old, I was madly in love, and my husband and I had a baby of our own. I was young; barely a child myself, but my little Apollo was the most darling thing in my universe. Well, him and his father. Zeus (yes, that was his name; his stage name really, but I never called him anything else) was a little older than me, a small matter of five or six years, but my father never liked him. He didn't like his age, he didn't like his suaveness, and he didn't like that some 'upstart' had come and stolen his daughter and sealed the deal with 'the little bastard'.

Father never called Apollo by name. He was not intentionally malicious towards my sweet baby son - who could be, tiny from born a little early with an abundance of hair and huge brown eyes, he melted the hearts of everyone - but he never really accepted him. "Apollo," he raged one day over the telephone, "What sort of name for a boy is that?" I explained to him calmly that it was the name of a god, of the sun and of the truth. What more fitting name for a boy like him was there? The god, son of Zeus, and the truth, which could never be hidden from my father or myself. Still, 'bastard' was what Apollo was called, as, according to my father, 'bastard' he was. After all, as far as he was concerned, my husband was barely existing, so how could we have a legal son?

But nobody, not my father, not Zak, and not Valant, could dent my happiness. The latter two - with both of whom, I am ashamed to say, I was (to some degree) aware of their romantic feelings towards me - had both come to persuade me to return to the troupe. Bring the boy, bring my husband! But no, I was happy, I was in love, and I was with my family.

And then, of course, I wasn't. I don't want to talk about the accident. It was too horrible. My Apollo witnessed it - thank god he was too young to remember! - but I only saw the aftermath, which was grizzly enough. How ironic, that I should suffer the same fate so many years later, and survive! Why, I sometimes ask, did whatever powers there are take my Zeus from me and not take me under the same circumstances? But no, I would not complain; I am lucky and happy to be alive.

I don't remember much about the next couple of months. In a state of depression, I returned to my father, with my son - Father now referred to him as 'the boy' - and after about a year, I began to feel fairly alive again. I helped Zak and Valant with their act, and began to get back to normal. But I couldn't help notice the discord. Father did not like Apollo, much as he tried to hide it, and it was clear that Zak was equally, if not more, uncomfortable with him. I spoke to Valant about it, and was told quietly that they both - and Valant too - thought that I was spending too much time and energy on the baby - and I, barely out of childhood myself, was still recovering from depression!

"You look at him," Zak told me, barely concealing his disgust as the four of us sat at dinner while Apollo napped, "And you see that man, and you cry again. You and I, Thalassa-"

Yes, he and I. My father had wasted little time in suggesting I remarry, preferably one of his disciples, and it was Zak who was beginning to charm me almost a year after my husband's death. I did marry him eventually, of course, but I wonder to this day if he knew I could never truly feel the love for him that he felt for me. I loved him, oh yes, but he, sad as it may be to admit it, was always second in my heart.

"You're not coping, Thalassa!" Valant urged me. "Zak is right, you can't look after this boy anymore."

I looked to my father, hoping against hope that he would help me, but he looked back coldly. "You are a child, Thalassa. The boy is stopping your recovery. You aren't performing, you aren't happy, and you frankly shouldn't even have a child of your own anyway."

I slowly came to believe them. After another depressive attack a week or two later, I caved in. I took my son in a bundle in my arms to the orphanage: I did not want their company. The door opened at the first knock. What must I have looked like to that kindly lady - a young girl, ragged from rain, soaked in tears, clutching and muttering to her baby, half-wild in her apologies and in her promises to him. I don't remember that night beyond the door opening. I spent the night at the orphanage, deemed unwell and unable to go home by the owner, and in the morning I left him with my bracelet to remember me by, and my promise that I would return to him when I could.

Years passed, and Zak and I were married. Five years after our wedding, I had my daughter, my little Trucy. Her eyes were the brightest blue - she had inherited the colour from me - but when I looked at her, the tiny baby in my arms, and saw the fuzz of brown hair and the size of her eyes, I burst into tears.

"My Trucy," I wept to her, as she blinked up at me, "How could I have done it? I promise, you will find your brother some day. We both will."

I never spoke of him again to her, never in her memory did I mention the boy who was her brother. Why didn't I? Why didn't I tell her? Why did I give him up in the first place? I suppose the reason was always the same.

...I was so scared.

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