Chapter Text
Apollo had never known envy, not even jealousy; the opportunity had simply never appeared.
Being born a god meant instant perfection, but being born a god and the child of the King was an entirely different level of untouchable. He had everything he could ever want and could do anything he pleased, however and whenever he wished. A flick of his wrist or a few words were all it took to turn any desire into reality.
The gods had always been beyond the reach of envy, for to be envious would mean to consider them comparable to mortals, or—even more shameful—equal.
Then he realized how wrong he was.
Apollo would rather renounce his throne in Olympus than admit that his gaze lingered longer than it was acceptable when he saw Aphrodite kiss Ares. He noticed that rare warmth in his brother's eyes, which always burned red with fury. His rough hands gently stroked her hips as if trying to touch a cloud. He would hate even more to acknowledge that feeling of tenderness in his chest at the sight of Dionysus and Ariadne running and chasing each other like headless chickens. And gods forbid Hera noticed his small, pathetic sigh when his father took her hand and, discreetly, caressed it with his thumb.
No, Apollo would rather die than endure such humiliation. Feeling envy was the most degrading thing that has ever happened to him but envying his father's marriage... that was truly driving him mad.
He thought, for a short period of time, that perhaps his true happiness lay in his solitude and autonomy; it had always worked for his sister at least. She simply runs through the woods, her chiton fluttering in the wind as carefree and wild as she was, her bow in hand and arrows sharp, chasing her prey and evading any adult feelings or problems.
Unfortunately for him, Apollo had always preferred the polis and finer things.
The god let out a heavy sigh, reaching for his cup as if the small effort might cause him pain. Even though it rested right beside him, he had no desire to move. He wanted to rot in the kliné in the same position he had been in the past few hours.
He had no intention of mending his wrinkled chiton, or changing it for one without old wine stains, not even writing a verse nor playing a single note. The boundless inspiration that always accompanied him was not enough anymore. Right now, he didn't want to compose a sonnet detailing his misery, nor write a hopeful poem about finding true love. He was done celebrating a feeling and a person he'd never known. And, may Melpomene forgive him, but tragic songs no longer satisfied him, not after being the protagonist in almost all of them.
He couldn’t stand the thought of everyone applauding his failures adorned with rhymes any longer.
Sudden bitterness corroded his insides, creeping up all the way to his skin; he could feel it burning him.
It wasn't fair. What crime was he guilty of to be unworthy of love?
His breathing became more and more ragged, his chest rising and falling so rapidly it hurt. He could feel the anger getting stuck in his throat, choking him as if he'd swallowed a stone. How much more pain would he have to take?
Bursts of memories flooded his mind: the lovely Daphne, a piece carefully chosen to remain in his heart as the most painful of wounds; the sweet Marpessa, who messed up his mind in countless ways. What wouldn’t Apollo have given to call her his? How much he had pleaded with Zeus to take her in marriage! Yet she, as vilely as one can be, rejected him for the most ordinary of men; Princess Coronis, who bewitched him in every sense, only to manipulate his heart with the sweetest deceptions of love. With that soft, deadly figure of hers, she was venomous as a viper and disgustingly proud like no other human, marveled at the idea of controlling a god.
Then, there was him, his beloved Hyacinthus, whose only fault in life was loving him as fiercely as Apollo had loved him. A moment that will always haunt his days. He saw himself frantically pressing the prince impossibly close to his chest, trying to fuse him to his body so nobody could take him from his grasp. And the incessant cries, his tears tracing scars into his cheeks as he begged Hermes to take his soul, too. Apollo remembered it all so vividly.
The wine in the cup boiled furiously, heat flooded the space within seconds. The air shimmered with temperatures so high they were visible, merging with the lethal glow radiating from the god.
The nymphs, once happily humming nearby, had long since fled, terrified by the burns consuming their skin.
Apollo couldn’t care less. He didn't care about the cries of pain from any creature unfortunate enough to be near his temple, he didn't care how his wrath might affect mortals, nor did he fear the wrath of the King himself because —as far as Apollo knew— mortals were accustomed to pain. Let them all suffer, then, for the Fates favor no one, not even him.
Taking a deep breath, Apollo closed his eyes and let his consciousness expand. A familiar tingle spread across the top of his head to his eyes, numbing him a moment just before the horizon surged into view. Whether this was a desperate distraction or pure masochism, Apollo didn't want to face it right now, but he saw what he had already expected: life.
Vivid colors everywhere, his own divinity lighting up the world; the peace and joy could be smelled in the air.
Lush trees swayed in the wind, its leaves painting the walkways green and cloying blooms perfumed the air. Apollo caught the gentle murmur of a distant river, where fish glided peacefully with the current, a sharp contrast to the violent sea crashing against the shore. Nearby, melodic laughter filled the marketplace as children ran through the aisles while adults finely tuned every detail for the festival.
The Hellenes' spirit was better than ever.
It was frustrating.
How dare they live so happily when Apollo was drowning in pain?
Isn't he a god? An Olympian, for Chaos' sake! Are not gods supposed to be superior among all? How come mortals get Aphrodite's favor but Apollo has to deal with eternal heartbreak?
Fueled by all the emotions that had tormented him for millennia, the god strode purposefully to the balcony, grabbed his bow and soared into the sky. His deadly arrow poised to bring as much panic and destruction as those lesser beings deserved.
Mortals would soon realize there was no disease or evil, crafted by him or anyone in the history of Creation, that could reap souls with such misery and torment.
Their organs would slowly rot, every shred of hope in their hearts would be consumed and their bodies left at the mercy of the most vicious scavengers. Day and night, they'd be condemned to beg for salvation, pleading for even the smallest gesture of kindness to a deity who wouldn’t grant them so much as a passing glance.
They'd kneel for hours. Their decaying flesh drawing maggots that would feast on everything in their path, as endless tears filled the earth with new rivers.
And Apollo would watch it all. He would revel in his masterpiece. He would watch them endure the pain he feels now, the pain he is doomed to bear for eternity.
Slowly, savoring the moment, he pulled a silvered arrow from his quiver.
He drew his bow.
Then... as swift as his own arrows, against all odds, salvation came to humanity.
The god let his muscles loosen, relief washing over him for the first time in centuries. Beings so ancient and divine that Apollo couldn't name them had taken pity on the humans below. With morbid curiosity, he wondered how mortals would react if they knew how close they'd come to catastrophe. A catastrophe that vanished as quickly as the image had appeared in the god's mind.
Apollo had an idea.