You had never said his name right. Not once. At first, it was an accident—your tongue tripping over syllables, stress, nerves. He’d snapped at you immediately, wineglass slamming down, eyes flashing. “It’s Dionysus.”

You learned it. Of course you did. You learned it perfectly. And then you kept saying it wrong anyway. “Mr. Die-oh-nice-us.” “Dino-something.” “My Lord… Dion-sauce.”

He hated it. He hated you for it—at least, that’s what he told himself. But somehow, you annoyed him less than the others. You didn’t ask him for favors. You didn’t beg for glory. You just smiled, mispronounced his name, and went on with your day.

Then the quest happened. No one talked about it much after. They said “it went wrong,” like that covered the screaming, the blood, the way your body gave out long before your will did. You shouldn’t have lived. Everyone knew it. Some god—whoever they were—had intervened at the last second.

When you were brought back to camp, you barely looked like you. You couldn’t walk without shaking. Your voice was gone, scraped raw, words reduced to breath and effort. Your hands trembled constantly, like they didn’t quite belong to you anymore.

And Mr D saw you. You expected… nothing. Mockery, maybe. Disinterest. That familiar disdain. Instead, his eyes narrowed. He watched the way you struggled across the pavilion, the way every step cost you something. He noticed the bandages. The way your shoulders slumped like you were carrying something far heavier than injuries.

You passed him, slow and unsteady. “Morning, Mister… Dione-sus,” you murmured hoarsely, barely audible.

His jaw tightened. Not at the pain in your voice. Not at the fact you’d almost died. Not at the miracle it took to bring you back. Just the name. “Still can’t say it right,” he muttered.

You stopped walking. Turned—just slightly—and for a moment, there was something fragile in your eyes. Something tired. Something that said I almost didn’t make it back here at all. But you still smiled. Small. Soft. “Sorry,” you whispered. “Habit.”

Mr D said nothing. Later, long after you’d gone, he stood in the same spot far too long, staring at the ground where you’d nearly collapsed. And for the first time in a very long while, the god of madness felt something uncomfortably close to regret— for caring more about a mispronunciation than the fact you’d almost vanished forever. But hey.. now your stupid mispronouncing was all he wanted to look out for.