#apollo threads

“How do you know I am really a god?” Apollo raised a perfect eyebrow and looked pointedly between the mud splatters upon Hector’s clothes and the sweat on his brow versus the pristine gold of Apollo’s own clothes or the way his dark dreadlocks neither moved in the breeze nor ever fell in his face as he raised his bow to shoot. He would have thought the answer to that question was perfectly obvious: between his devastating good looks and the fact that the day had been rather dismal before he’d arrived, he’d thought he’d more than proven his godhood. “How do you know I am really here?” That question was even easier: without taking his eyes off Hector, he shot an incoming soldier straight in the chest with a wooden arrow and watched the man crumble to the dirt at Hector’s feet, groaning in pain. Hector’s men cheered for their brave and powerful prince, a man whose enemies, it appeared, fell before him without need to ever lift a hand.

For Hector was the only one who could see the archer god by his side, a god who had appeared suddenly that morning and was here still, following the prince around, illuminating Hector by his golden glow, which was as much for appearances--making him look more impressive, stronger, larger-than life--as it was for protection: no approaching arrow, no lazy swing of a sword could penetrate the aura that the god of healing had crafted around his hero. Which rather defeated the point of a sparring session.

Apollo sat by the boy’s side, running his hands up and down the length of the golden lyre, though it was already polished and shining nearly as bright as he was: yellow glow of the sun all around. If you didn’t know better--young and cocky god that he was--a passerby might have thought he was nervous. But it was, after all, an important gift, and Orpheus was a special case. 

He knew Hermes had already gifted the boy a lyre of his own--the god of music had not been pleased to learn it, not with the long and complicated history the two shared over the instrument--but all the same, Hermes (that thief, Apollo thought bitterly) might be a mentor to the boy, but he was not the leader of the muses, had not been put in charge by Zeus himself to care for each and every one of them, foster them--and that included their children. 

Apollo’s hand stopped upon on the door frame, golden fingers glowing only a second longer before they solidified into solid brown skin. He should have moved on, should have walked away. He had not come for her. 

He was here for Hector, to speak with his hero, as was the habit of the gods in these terrible times when men died like flies, scattered across the coast, picked apart by the birds and sent to Hades. This war had raged on for years, and though his father found amusement in it still--picking up his favorites and depositing them like toys across the battlefield--Apollo was not the only god who had lost interest, who was tired of hearing his name cried out into the heat of battle, only for the prayer to be left unfinished on parched and bloodied lips. He was tired of hearing of the triumphs of Achilles, tired of followers paying the price: first his priestesses stolen, abused, then his priests ignored. Hector had lasted this long, but human luck had never been enough before. Apollo grit his teeth, staring down the hall where he knew the man would be awake, pacing, planning for the next day’s battle. But the god’s eyes found her door once more, and he did not walk away. He could feel her on the other side, and he hated what he found: her panic, her frustration--his curse. 

Who: open to everyone!

Apollo looked carefully over the table full of props. The summer solstice always brought about an air of frantic energy to the theater. Whether that be because of the celebration or because of the incoming heat, Apollo was never sure.

He can hear the other actors on stage finishing up a scene. The girl vowing her love to a boy of an enemy's house on a balcony, and the boy making himself known from the bushes.

He picked up a blunt prop knife out of boredom–one that could retract to show the illusion of being stabbed–and pushed it into his palm before pulling it away again. Apollo had a long break between his previous scene and his upcoming one.

A shadow caught the corner of his eyes. People really thought these outdoor performances gave them all the right to snoop back stage. "You can't be back here!" He said as loud as he could without interrupting the scene on stage.

Accepting || Memes (x)

“I don’t care.” Apollo fell dramatically over the arm of the couch, coming to rest on the pillows he had clearly laid out just for this reason. “No one worshipped us in the thirteenth-century.” He could remember the hunger like a physical wound: no offerings, no sacrifice, no praise. The day they’d built a monastery over his temple. His anger then had almost been as terrible as the day he’d found out the Beatle’s “Here Comes the Sun” had topped the charts and not a single person had thought of him while singing along.

Memes || Accepting || @songdreamt

Apollo sat in the grass, hand wrapped around a bright purple flower and shielding it from the growing winds. “Yes,” he agreed. But there was no bargaining with Hades. Orpheus had come closer than most. This flower was the most Apollo had ever been offered--so that his love’s body would not rot, would not disappear, but bloom a new each spring--and he was a god. He had had to refuse to raise the sun over the horizon before his grief was acknowledged. Then again, it was not so unusual that a particular human should catch the attention of the gods. It happened every day. This flower was the proof. And Orpheus was far from ordinary. 

Cassandra doesn't know what she expected him to say, but hearing him say he never forgot her isn't one of her guesses.

Her eyes darts from the painting she's been moving her brush over, capturing one of her visions-- fall of her home, the beautiful Troy burning down in flames-- and finds Apollo instead. But looking at him is too painful, it feels like looking at the sun with bare eyes, a blinding glory, so she looks back to her painting. She knew she was going to see him again, because from the moment they locked eyes in that festival night, her life was intertwined with his. He is a part of her now, even if she likes it or not.

" You will," She says with an unusual calmness, a tone of acceptance and defeat to her voice. " Maybe I'll keep your head busy for a few another years, but then I'll be gone. You won't even remember my name." She glances over him for a moment. She knows this is her fault, since she is the one to dishonor their agreement, but still, it doesn't change how bitter she feels about it. Especially when it means she has to watch everything she loves burn down, lose everyone she loves. " Being important enough to be remembered isn't something I can see for myself."

But despite the poisonous words and sharp tongue, she thinks about him too. More than she'd care to admit. She thinks about how different things would go if she wouldn't let her greed, and her own wrong judgement blind the love she had once for the god. Maybe the war could be prevented, then. Maybe thousands of innocent people wouldn't die. Maybe she could be happy with Apollo-- but no. Thinking of gods like mortals is foolish, and so is counting on them. Cassandra can love Apollo with a maddening love for her entire life, but she won't be more than a blip, a second in his. She is no match for him, and she knows this.

" I know," She speaks but her voice shakes a little, as well as her hand as she messes up the paint, which only frustrates her more. She has seen it in her visions, she is going to be the one who sees the body of Hector for the first time, wailing while hugging what's left of him. Only then comes Achilles, paying with his life for what he does to Hector. " I begged, I cried, I told him not to go to the front but Hector won't hear me." She shrugs, but she seems desperate. She clutches the brush in her hand so tight her nails sink into her palm. " But that's nothing new, is it? I am going to lose my brother, I am going to lose my mother and my father, my city, my home... and there is not a single thing I can do about it. I am going to watch. Sometimes it feels like this will be my life from now on. It will be lived and I will die, but I won't get to live it myself. "

She looks over Apollo when he says he's sorry. " So am I," She says quietly. " If I could take back the things I did, I would. I would take all of them back."

“Your visions may not be believed, but they will be remembered. Cassandra of Troy--the girl who spoke when no one would listen.” History would remember her--even if he did not. Apollo had sworn a thousand times (and he would swear a thousand more) that each love would last, that he would cherish them forever--make his lovers immortal. And when they left--and they all did, lovers gathering as corpses at his feet--he mourned like it was the first time, swore he would never love again. Men do not grieve for cattle; a god cannot grieve for man. His father’s words, and ones Apollo despised with every fiber of his being. 

But in the end, he moved on. Always. Another lover came. His heart exploded, consumed, broke, and repaired. The cycle repeated. 

He strode across the room, the tiles lighting where he stepped, dusty dark stone turned suddenly bright white--but only for a moment. He thought of his oracle, of a girl and a tripod and the messages of the gods. Apollo had thought it such a wise idea, a connection: man and god in conversation, a place for all the world to gather and learn from one another and from Olympus up above. But already--as his sister had predicted and he had refused to believe--it had been corrupted, stained. How many times would he have to intervene? Curse the priests who whispered falsehoods in his prophet’s ear? Strike down the businessmen who told lies to every gathered man with gold in his pocket?

He stopped at the window. The night was dark, lit by scattered fires made by tired men. But the war would continue in the morning. It would continue tonight. The best and most dangerous attacks were made under the light of his sister’s moon. “Paris will end him,” he said, and his tone was suddenly very sure, very firm and determined. “I will make sure of it.” His hero, Hector, would fall--the gods had willed it, a prophecy spoken long ago--but Achilles would pay for his bloodshed. Apollo would direct the arrow himself if he had to. The bloodshed, the raids, his priestesses stolen from their beds--it had to end. It would end. 

Her younger brother was a fool--all the gods and men said it--but Apollo could not help but think it romantic: a war, all in the name of love. 

A Meme I Lost || @godlessbody

Apollo laughed and rolled onto his side, away from the burst of morning sunlight that he’d shown Icarus, those mere slivers of yellow white glow that worked their way into the darkened maze. On his side, he pushed a strand of hair back behind Icarus’ ear and moved in close enough to kiss. But he held back. Their lips brushed instead as he whispered, “You want to know a secret?” His smile was growing, conspiratory and excited. “I am going to take you away from here. Soon. And then you will never be lost again. I will show you the world.”