Mild, and... off. Melpomene's mouth thinned, and she pressed it again to Telos' hair, wrapping both of her arms around him. No, it was less that she was out of favour, and more that if Apollo's favouring of her didn't extend over Telos (and Tragos) (and anything else she might choose to want that he may not want her to want) then she would accept no favour at all. She hardened her mouth, and lifted her chin.
"He's out of favour with me," she said, but it didn't sound as strong as she wanted it to. It didn't sound as broken as it had sounded when she'd whispered it through her locked door, at his receding back, and it didn't sound so hollow and horrified as when she told Alan, but... it still felt like it was a long way from strong.
As Aphrodite had once pointed out, she was just a Muse. What did her favour really matter, to an Olympian?
She lifted Telos from her lap and turned him, holding him over her shoulder, holding him close, her hand lightly stroking his head. Sounding strong didn't matter, she told herself, too exhausted for arrogance, too weary to note the significance of stating it outloud to someone who wasn't Alan. It didn't matter. Only Telos mattered, and here he was, safe in her arms.