#daphne reader

ONLY YOU, DARLING, ONLY YOU, BABE | Apollo X Reader

Apollo x Daphne!Reader | Record of Ragnarok

"In which no matter how much time passes, the sun god will never forget how much he loved her."

WARNING. idiots in love, modifications to the original myth, angst. FEMALE READER

First of all, I wanted to apologize profusely for disappearing. I've been focused on personal matters and have given more attention to my fanfics on other platforms, and ended up neglecting Tumblr too much. Although this ask was sent several months ago, I apologize again for only seeing it now. I will try to be more frequent and not disappear for another year.

First, it was just a faint glow, like the reflection of the rising sun on the calm sea. Then, it intensified, becoming almost blinding, forcing even the gods to half-close their eyes as they anxiously awaited the appearance of something unquestionably superior.

And then, he appeared.

Apollo, the God of the Sun, crossed the portal of light with slow steps as if time bent to his will. He walked as one who possessed the stage of the entire universe. The gods in the stands greeted him with acclamations, and the nymphs let out passionate cries, but Apollo did not look at any of them, although he signaled that he was listening with both hands over his ears. His eyes were fixed on the center of the arena, where Leonidas, his opponent, also appeared too. His smile was perfect and radiant, which provoked more cries from the nymphs.

But, the instant his feet took another step on the arena floor, something changed.

A subtle aroma reminiscent of green leaves, damp earth, and freshly picked laurel filled his nostrils like an unwanted—or perhaps desired—memory. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him intimately. His eyes widened slightly, and behind the mask of absolute confidence, something stirred.

(Name).

The name echoed within him like a dissonant note in his symphony of perfection. The girl who had seen him when he was still just a mediocre god, sweating in the hills, missing arrow after arrow, punch after punch, until he conquered each title with his own hands. The girl who had known him before the light, before the glory. The girl who had laughed with him, who had challenged him, who had loved him—and whom he still loved, with an intensity that no eon could erase.

(Name) remained a shadow of his eternal existence, a haunting presence that never fully revealed itself, an emptiness in the form of a memory he carried beneath his golden crown.

Apollo blinked once slowly, as if banishing a ghost. The smile returned to his face, brighter than before. He raised his arms in a grand salute to the crowd, turning his body in a dramatic pose that made the light dance around him. The applause erupted again, more intense. He continued to walk to the center of the arena. His chest rose in a deep breath, absorbing the expectations of everyone around him, converting them into power.

Apollo finally stopped before Leonidas, raised his chin, his pink hair fluttering slightly.

He was ready.

The ninth round of Ragnarok could begin.

The hills echoed with the rhythmic sound of muffled impacts, as if the earth itself were being shaped by an insistent force. The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the landscape, tinging the stones with a scorching gold and making the air tremble with heat. There, in a small valley surrounded by trees and thorny bushes, Apollo trained.

In those immortal days, he was just Apollo, a young, mediocre god, lost in the shadow of the great figures of the Greek pantheon. His titles did not exist, and glory was a distant promise, forged in the sweat and frustration that now streamed down his face.

His pink hair was disheveled and clung to his skin with perspiration, swaying with every movement. He wore a simple tunic, stained with dust and clay. His muscles, though defined by divine heritage, still lacked the precision and strength that would come with tireless effort.

Apollo was punching an olive tree trunk that had been dead since before he arrived, which he had improvised as a training bag. His bare fists collided with the hard bark, sending splinters flying through the air. Each blow was an echo of his inner rage, as if he were striking not only the wood, but his own limitations.

— "Why am I like this?" — He murmured through clenched teeth, sweat dripping from his chin and forming puddles on the dry earth.

He felt small, insignificant. The other gods were born with gifts that seemed innate, as if destiny had blessed them from the cradle. But Apollo? He was ordinary, a god without any special brilliance, forced to conquer every crumb of power through arduous training.

Mediocre, the word echoed in his mind, a self-imposed prophecy that tormented him. He hated it, hated the weakness he saw in himself, the reflection in the nearby stream that showed a handsome face, yes, but empty of true greatness. As he punched harder, the trunk creaked in protest, but did not yield, just as his doubts did not yield.

The pain in his knuckles was welcome; it reminded him that effort molded the soul. Apollo paused for a moment, panting, flexing his reddened hands. Meanwhile, he was just an aspiring athlete training alone in the hills, far from the eyes of the Great Ones of Olympus.

The solitude weighed heavily on him; there was no audience to applaud him, o one to witness his transformation.

"I will know myself." he promised himself. "I will know my weaknesses and transform them into strengths." Another punch, stronger, and a thin crack appeared in the bark of the trunk. A small triumph, but enough to ignite a spark of pride in his chest.

Eventually Apollo had to force himself to pause more often. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, which shone with a fierce determination mixed with a subtle melancholy. He loved beauty—his own, and that of the world around him—but hated how superficial it seemed without the fire of effort. Each day of training was a battle against complacency, against the good fortune that the lazy gods accepted. Apollo would not be like that; he would burn his soul to become supreme. But, deep down, he longed for something more, someone who saw beyond the surface, who understood the inner struggle that consumed him.

It was in this moment of pause that he heard the subtle rustling. It wasn't the wind; It was something alive and graceful, like the whisper of leaves in a distant stream. Apollo raised his head, his senses sharpened by training, and spotted a figure emerging from the shadows of the nearby trees.

A nymph? She walked lightly barefoot, her (h/c) hair waving like wild vines, intertwined with green leaves that seemed part of her. Her (e/c) eyes, deep as the depths of a forest, fixed on him with curiosity, not flattery.

The impact was immediate.

Apollo felt a tightness in his chest, as if an arrow or a punch had pierced him—not from pain, but from something new and vibrant. His heart, immortal and usually calm, quickened slightly.

Who was she? Why did her presence make him feel exposed, as if she could see through his facade of effort?

He stopped punching the trunk, his hands falling to his sides, and for the first time in hours, the valley was silent. Her beauty wasn't divine, polished like Aphrodite's; it was natural and wild, like a flower that blooms without permission, defying the sun it would one day control. She was dressed in a white chiton, slightly damp fabrics, as if she had just emerged from a river, moving gracefully among the trees until she reached him.

— "You strike that trunk as if it were your greatest enemy." — She said, her voice soft as the murmur of a stream, but with a hint of amusement that cut through the tense air.

It wasn't a criticism; it was an observation, honest and disarming. Apollo blinked, surprised—no one approached him like that. He straightened his posture, wiping his hands on his tunic, feeling a subtle blush rise to his face, something rare for a vain god like him.

— "And if it is?" — He retorted, trying to sound confident, but his voice came out softer than intended.

Internally, a storm raged—curiosity mixed with attraction, a feeling that she was seeing the real "him", the mediocre man struggling to rise.

She smiled, drawing closer, her feet leaving light impressions on the earth. — “Or maybe it’s yourself you’re trying to bring down.”

The words hit him like a precise punch, straight to the core of his self-awareness. Apollo felt a shiver run down his spine. Who was this nymph who could decipher his soul with a glance? He observed her more closely—the soft curve of her lips, the glint in her eyes reflecting the sunlight, the relaxed posture that contrasted with her constant tension.

For the first time, his obsession with beauty turned to another person, not as a mirror, but as an inspiration.

— “I… I am Apollo.”

The nymph tilted her head slightly to the side. — “I know who you are, you’re the god who’s been training around here lately.” — Their eyes met, and she smiled, making Apollo swallow hard. — “I am (Name).”

The nymph took another step forward, now so close that Apollo could feel the freshness emanating from her—an aroma of freshly flowed river, wet leaves, and something sweet like honeysuckle warmed by the sun. The white chiton clung lightly to her still-damp body, outlining soft, natural curves, but she didn't seem to mind; in fact, she even seemed amused by the way his eyes, for a brief moment, betrayed his surprise.

— "(Name)…" — Apollo repeated, the name escaping his lips as if he were testing the weight of a new arrow. He tried to regain his composure, raising an eyebrow with that air of superiority that was already his by nature, even though he was still so raw. — "A naiad, I suppose? It's not every day someone interrupts my training."

She laughed, an open, crystalline laugh that echoed through the trees like birds taking flight. No restrained giggles or downcast glances; It was the sound of someone who feared neither gods nor their vanities.

— "These hills have been mine longer than you've been training on them. I'm the one who should be charging admission." — (Name) crossed her arms in a relaxed, almost defiant way.

Apollo winked, unarmed. No one spoke to him like that. Not the other young gods, who treated him with distance, nor the nymphs who occasionally crossed his path and quickly lowered their eyes, enchanted by his divine beauty. But (Name) looked him in the eye as an equal, with a mischievous glint in her eyes (e/c).

He exhaled through his nose, a half-smile appearing.

— "Fair enough." — He conceded, raising his bruised hands in surrender. — "Then consider me an unwelcome guest. But since you're here… what do you think of my opponent?" — He pointed with his chin to the cracked trunk, trying to regain some control of the conversation.

(Name) approached the trunk unceremoniously, running her delicate fingers along the chipped bark. Her bare feet stepped exactly where his had been, as if measuring something.

— "Strong enough to hold you off until now." — She commented, turning to him with a sideways smile. — “But you’re hitting wrong. Look here.” — Without asking permission, she took his right hand, raising it to the sunlight.

Apollo froze for a second at the touch; her fingers were soft and firm, without hesitation. She turned his palm over, examining the reddened calluses and small cuts.

— “You’re punching with anger. Do you see how the knuckles of your fingers are all bruised on the same side? That means you’re twisting your fist at the last instant. Wasted anger.”

Apollo stared at her, stunned. It wasn’t empty criticism; it was precise, as if she truly understood what he was trying to build there.

— “And you… do you understand boxing?” — He asked, his voice lower than he intended, still feeling the warmth of her touch on his skin.

(Name) released his hand, but didn’t back down. Instead, he took an even closer step, close enough for him to see the droplets of water glistening on her collarbones.

— "I understand fighting." — She replied bluntly. — "Trees fight every day against the wind, against fire, against axes. I see it. And I see you here, every day, from sunrise to sunset. Alone, striking, missing arrows, cursing softly when you think no one is listening." — She smiled again, but this time there was something softer in her gaze. — "It's not easy, is it? Wanting to be more than you were born to be."

The words hit him hard. Apollo felt his chest tighten again, he lowered his gaze for a moment, then looked back at her, the mask of vanity cracking a little more.

— "It's not easy..." — He admitted, his voice hoarse with accumulated fatigue. — "Everyone up there was born with something. I… I have to pull mine out of thin air."

(Name) nodded, as if she'd known this for ages.

— "Then let me help you." — She said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She positioned herself beside the tree trunk, raising her clenched fists in a playful but correct gesture. — "Show me how you punch. And I'll show you how to make this trunk beg for mercy without destroying your hands in the process."

Apollo looked at her for a long second. The sun shone on her (h/c) hair, creating a natural halo, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel so alone in the valley.

— "Alright, (Name)." — A genuine smile finally breaking through his expression. — "But if I hit it right, you'll have to applaud me."

She laughed again, throwing her head back. — "Okay. But if you keep hitting it wrong, I'll be the one booing you. And the nymph's jeering echoes far away, Apollo. Far away."

Under the blazing sun of the hills, the mediocre god and the daring nymph began something neither of them yet knew how to name.

What had started as a casual encounter in the valley had evolved into something deeper, as if (Name) had become the air Apollo breathed, the sun he still aspired to have under his dominion. It wasn't a love fabricated by the whims of the gods, one full of intrigue and illusions; it was pure and genuine, born from shared sweat and exposed weaknesses.

In the beginning, it was just the training, those raw moments where (Name) arrived at dawn, the dew still fresh on her leaves intertwined in her hair (h/c), a provocative smile illuminating her face like the first ray of light. She helped him refine his punches against the dead trunks, correcting his posture with firm touches, her fingers tracing the line of his shoulders or adjusting the angle of his fist. She told him he was overexerting himself in certain areas, that he should loosen up and feel the flow.

He responded dramatically, raising his hands in feigned offense at how she dared question a rising god, but internally, he laughed at himself, that initial spark of attraction spreading like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.

Love had sprouted subtly, like a seed planted without fanfare, a slow growth rooted in the admiration he felt for someone who saw beyond the divine shell—not as the aspiring beauty, but as the mediocre man who struggled, day after day, to reinvent himself. She was important there from the beginning—without her, his blows would be empty, his determination a weak flame; with her, each attempt gained purpose.

Over time, the training naturally extended beyond fists and bows, as if the valley invited them to explore further. They began to wander through the surrounding forests, (Name) guiding him along hidden trails that he, despite his divine heritage, had never noticed—winding paths between trees where soft moss cushioned his steps and the air smelled of living earth.

One misty morning, she led him to a hidden stream, a trickle of crystal-clear water that meandered between mossy stones. (Name) dove in first without hesitation, her white chiton leaving her body, emerging naked with her (h/c) hair clinging to her damp face, her (e/c) eyes gleaming with pure mischief, beckoning him to join her, referring to him as the future God of the Sun while playfully asking if he was afraid of getting wet.

Apollo hesitated for a second, his vanity making him question whether he would look ridiculous, exposed like that, but her laughter—free, echoing like birdsong—drew him in. He undressed slowly, feeling the cool air against his skin, and plunged in beside her, the cold water shocking his immortal body like an awakening. They swam splashing each other like immortal children, bodies floating in the cool current, accidental touches becoming intentional like a brushing of legs, a bump of shoulders that sent shivers down his spine.

He watched her laugh, her head thrown back, the drops of water glistening on her skin like natural jewels, her breasts rising and falling with her quickened breath, and he felt a tightness in his chest. He thought about how she made him feel alive as his heart raced not from training, but from the simple joy of her company, from the way she saw him naked, without armor, and still challenged him.

As time passed, a deeper intimacy emerged, interwoven in everyday gestures that Apollo began to crave as never before, as if each day without her was an empty shell. They walked through the hills at dusk, (Name) always ahead with her nymph-like grace, her bare feet leaving light impressions on the earth, turning to tease him with a mischievous glance over her shoulder, provoking him to try to reach her or if he would simply stand there admiring the view. He followed her with a smile that grew increasingly genuine, less calculated to impress, purer in its joy.

On one of these walks, under a sky tinged with purple, they stopped in the shade of an olive tree. (Name) leaned against him, her eyes fixed on his with an intensity that disarmed him, the sweat from the walk glistening on her forehead like dew. She spoke of how much he had improved. Apollo felt pride swell in his chest, but more than that, a profound gratitude, almost painful—she saw the progress he barely admitted to himself, the weaknesses he transformed into strengths thanks to her words.

At that point, love was a flame burning in his immortal heart with an obsessive intensity, as if losing her would be the end of everything; a mixture of desire for the way her body moved, fluid and wild as the wind in the leaves, and an admiration for the daring soul that challenged him to know himself better. He found himself thinking of her during the lonely days and nights, reliving casual touches like an adjustment to his posture during training or a playful slap on the shoulder that left a lingering warmth; and he longed for more.

The closeness naturally evolved into moments of quiet, as if the world conspired to isolate them. They would sit under the emerging stars, the cool night air laden with the scent of wild jasmine, Apollo playing his first lyre—a gift from Hermes—as melodies spontaneously arose, inspired by her. His fingers danced on the strings with a passion he had never felt before, composing verses about nymphs dancing with the wind and defying vain gods, verses that actually spoke of her, of how she saved him from his own mediocrity.

(Name) listened, her head resting against his shoulder in an unconscious gesture, her eyes reflecting the brilliance of the constellations. She responded in a soft voice that it was beautiful, about how he made everything special thanks to the passion he put into it, as if his soul sang through the strings.

Her words struck him like precise arrows, fueling their love. He loved her for her audacity, for the way she mocked his mistakes with loud laughter and applauded his successes with enthusiasm. That united them, transforming Apollo's solitude into something shared, and the feeling deepened in layers—physical desire existed there, however, for the damp glow on her skin after a run, for the curve of her body when she stretched; but also a special connection.

As if she were the muse that ignited his quest for self-knowledge, the light that dispelled the darkness of his doubt. Without her, his progress would stagnate; with her, every title he aspired to—Poetry, Music, Medicine, the Sun—seemed within reach, because she taught him to see beauty in effort, not in innate perfection.

Much more time passed as the seasons turned like an eternal cycle and mortals came and went. On a golden afternoon, they returned to the stream, undressing each other under the light filtered through the leaves, laughing softly at the insecurities Apollo confessed about feeling as if she saw all his flaws, and she responding with a soft kiss on his shoulder. They swam naked again, hands exploring curves and muscles, bodies intertwined in the warm water, kisses exchanged beneath the surface. Apollo held her close, feeling her heart beat against his, and thought of how deep that love was, red as blood.

After that, (Name) taught him about medicinal herbs, gathering leaves and roots that healed divine wounds, saying that this would help him become the God of Medicine he dreamed of being, while pressing a compress to a recent cut, her soft fingers tracing his skin with a tenderness that made him tremble. Apollo held his breath in those moments, her touch sending waves of heat through his body, and he thought about how much he loved her.

In a bolder moment, under a torrential rain, a wild boar appeared, having invaded the territory—a ferocious beast with eyes as red as Apollo's love. (Name) distracted it while Apollo knocked it down with a precise punch. In the aftermath, she impulsively embraced him, her body damp with rain and exertion pressed against his, her lips meeting his in a passionate kiss, telling him he had been incredible. Apollo felt the world stop, love igniting like a blazing bonfire, uncontrollable like a flame that shone brighter than the sun. That embrace, those kisses in the rain, deepened everything—she was the essence of his progress, the muse who transformed his mediocrity into divinity, the partner who saw his soul.

"I love you, (Name)." He had thought countless times, the feeling pulsing in every beat of his immortal heart, a feeling that made him vulnerable, yet invincible.

The rain passed and the sun rose on the horizon. Apollo and (Name) lay side by side on the bank of the stream under the still-damp grass. Her (h/c) hair spread across the grass like a river of wild leaves, and her (e/c) eyes gazed at the sky with a tranquility that Apollo silently envied. He turned his face to her, tracing with his gaze every curve, every drop of water that still glistened on her smooth, soft skin, every breath that gently lifted her chest.

The silence between them was comfortable, filled only by the distant song of cicadas and the murmur of the water. (Name) lazily stretched out her hand, intertwining her fingers with his without looking, as if that gesture were already part of their shared breath. Apollo squeezed her hand harder than he intended, an almost desperate grip, like someone trying to hold back time.

He wanted it to last forever.

He wanted the sun to stop there, on the horizon, suspended between day and night, so that they would never have to rise from that bank. He wanted the seasons to cease their cycle, the trees never to lose their leaves, the stream never to dry up. He wanted the whole world to freeze in that instant—the two of them naked, without titles, without Olympus or Valhalla, without destiny. Just them. Only that peace he had never known before her and feared he would never know again.

But, deep in his immortal heart, a dark feeling pulsed like something he didn't want to hear. A premonition that wasn't divine prophecy but something more fragile, the certainty that nothing like this lasted. That loves like that—pure, wild, born of effort and vulnerability—were exactly the ones the gods most liked to break.

Apollo turned his body to the side, propping himself up on his elbow to observe her better. (Name) smiled, without opening her eyes.

— "What is it?" — She murmured.

— "Nothing." — He lied softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her lips. — "Just… stay here with me a little longer."

She opened her eyes then, those (e/c) eyes that truly saw him, and smiled in a way that made his heart ache.

— "I'm here, Apollo. I'll always be here."

He wanted to believe it. With all the strength of his ascending soul, he wanted to believe it. But as he kissed her slowly, tasting the river and honeysuckle in her mouth, as her hands moved up his back as if wanting to etch him into her memory, Apollo felt the red of that love deepen even more—not just passion, but fear.

Fear that one day the sun would rise and she wouldn't be there.

Fear that the valley would be empty.

Fear that everything he was becoming had been built upon something that fate had already decided to take from him.

He hugged her tighter, like someone trying to hold back the wind.

He wanted it to last forever.

But, in the silence that followed, with the sky slowly darkening and the first stars appearing, Apollo knew—with a pain that had no name yet—that forever was not a word the gods allowed for loves like theirs.

Oh, how he wanted it to have lasted forever.

Olympus rose as the gods gathered in the Great Hall. It was a day of ascension, and Apollo, the once mediocre aspirant, now stood at the center of the circle of golden thrones. His now long, pink hair fell in perfect waves over his shoulders. His toga, now adorned with solar jewels that captured and reflected the light, opened at the chest, revealing a body sculpted by eons of tireless effort. He wasn't born this way; he had earned every muscle, every title, with sweat and determination.

Zeus, the King of the Gods, his father, raised his arm to officially proclaim him one of the Twelve–God of the Sun, of Prophecy, of Music, of Medicine, of Archery, of Poetry, of Boxing—Apollo felt the weight of the journey echo in his mind. But, amidst the glory, his thoughts didn't dwell on his own beauty or the adulation of the surrounding gods. No; they revolved around her. The only one who had seen him when he was nothing, the only one who had propelled him to become everything.

As the divine crowd applauded, Apollo relived fragments of his ascension, each intertwined with her presence. She had taught him to recognize his weaknesses, to transform them into strengths; thinking about this made his immortal heart beat with an intensity that no divine title could match. The only one who saw him sweat, fail, and yet loved him for his effort, not for his glory. The only one who made him feel that true beauty lies not in innate perfection, but in the fire that burns within. He saw her as the complementary light to his sun.

As Zeus placed the final seal on his ascension, declaring. — "Apollo, Phoebus, the Brilliant, take your place among the Twelve."

Apollo bowed his head in gratitude, but his mind was already planning the future. (Name) would be his wife, he decided, with a certainty without haste or imposition. It was not a selfish conquest; it was a desire to share eternity with the only one who understood him.

The applause echoed, and Apollo raised his arms in a grandiose pose and smiled at the crowd. The ceremony ended, and Apollo descended the steps of the hall, his chest swelling with triumphant pride. The gods congratulated him, but it was there, in the gardens adjacent to the hall, that he encountered someone.

Eros leaned against a column, bow in hand, arrows gleaming in the setting sun.

The God of Love, with his curly hair and mischievous eyes, played with an arrow, casually shooting it at a distant target not with the precision of a warrior, but with the capricious grace of desire.

Still euphoric from his ascension, Apollo approached with a superior smile. — "Ah, Eros. Still playing with toys while the true gods conquer Olympus?"

His voice was light, but laden with a subtle mockery now amplified by the recent glory that made him underestimate the power of love as mere play. He had thought of (Name) at that moment, his love for her so profound that, ironically, it blinded him to the dominion of Eros.

The little god stopped spinning the arrow, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint, like the reflection of a blade under the light. He straightened slowly, his wings trembling slightly, a subtle sign of irritation that Apollo, immersed in his thoughts, didn't immediately notice.

— "My bow shapes destinies, Apollo. Your sun may illuminate the world, but without love, it's just empty heat. How many mortals and gods have fallen because of one of my arrows? And you, with your 'conquered beauty', think you're above that?"

Apollo laughed, a dramatic laugh that echoed through the gardens. — "I conquered mine with effort, not with arrows. Save your arrows for foolish mortals or lazy gods... I have the only one that matters, the one that completed me without artifice."

But Eros, now standing, slowly raised his bow, fitting an arrow with an audible click that echoed through the gardens like a warning. His mischievous eyes now burned with genuine offense—the God of Love did not tolerate being diminished, especially by someone who had just ascended.

— “Then prove it, God of the Sun.” — Hissed Eros, his voice low and venomous. — “You speak of love, but mock the power that creates it. Your effort is laudable, but without desire, without the spark I ignite, you would still be a lonely god pounding empty tree trunks. Perhaps I'll show you what it's like to be consumed by a passion you can't control."

The valley was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon, the sun—now officially his domain—hanging low on the horizon like a golden crown Apollo wore with newly acquired pride. He descended from Olympus with his immortal heart beating to a rhythm he only knew when he thought of her. (Name), the one and only. The idea of ​​telling her everything—the ascension, the titles, the place among the Twelve—made his chest swell with pure joy, without vanity, only gratitude. He imagined her smile, her (e/c) eyes shining like dew-kissed leaves, her (h/c) hair dancing in the wind as she embraced him and said, with that boldness only she possessed, that she always knew he would get there.

He found her exactly where he expected, on the bank of the stream, sitting on a smooth stone, her bare feet immersed in the flowing water, her white chiton clinging slightly to her body from the dampness. She hummed a melody softly, something he himself had composed on nights past, when he played the lyre just for her. Hearing his footsteps, (Name) lifted her face, and the smile that spread across her face was as radiant as the sun that now belonged to her.

— "Apollo!" — She called, leaping to her feet, water splashing around her ankles. — "You look different. Shining brighter than usual."

He laughed, a genuine, open laugh, and ran the last few steps to embrace her. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, her body fitting into his as it always had—like roots intertwining effortlessly. He inhaled the scent of river, honeysuckle, and damp earth that was uniquely hers, and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the whole world shrink into that embrace.

— “I am… everything I dreamed of being.” — He murmured against her (h/c) hair. — “The Twelve.”

She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, her hands rising to cup his face. Her thumbs traced the lines of his cheekbones, as if to confirm that it was real.

— “I know.” — She said in a soft voice. — “I always knew. You were never mediocre, Apollo. You just needed to believe in the fire that already burned within you.”

He felt his chest tighten in a sweet, almost painful way. That was his love for her, a gratitude so profound. (Name) wasn't a trophy, nor a distant muse; she was a partner, a mirror, and a flame. The only one who had seen him doubt and yet still chosen him every day.

— “You were that fire.” — He confessed, leaning his forehead against hers. — “Without you, I would still be punching tree trunks alone, lost in my own vanity. You taught me what true beauty is... knowing yourself, changing, growing. You made me who I am."

(Name) smiled and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss, full of everything that didn't need to be said. His hands slid down her back, feeling the warm skin beneath the damp fabric, and for a long moment the world was just them, together with the sound of the stream, the distant birdsong, and the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

They sat on the bank and Apollo told her everything, and (Name) listened attentively, her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his hand.

— "And now?" — She asked finally, her voice low. — "What does a Sun God do when he conquers everything he wanted?"

Apollo turned to her, his eyes serious.

— "Now I want you. As my wife. Not as a prize, not as a possession. As an equal. I want to spend eternity with the only person who saw me whole... weaknesses, vanity, effort, everything. I want to wake up every day by your side, compose songs that only you will hear, sculpt art for you. You are the only one, (Name). You always have been and always will be. So... will you marry me?"

She slowly raised her face, her lips parted in a smile that hadn't yet fully formed. Those (e/c) eyes that he loved more than any constellation, shone with tears of emotion that balanced on her eyelids, ready to fall, but still held back. Apollo saw the "yes" forming on her lips—he saw it in the slight trembling, he saw it in the way she leaned towards him, he saw it in the warmth that still emanated from her skin. He was ready to take her with him to Delos, to the sacred islands, to Olympus if she wanted. He just needed to hear those words. He just needed her to say "yes" and everything would be complete.

— "Apollo…" — She began in a low voice, full of a tenderness that made his heart swell almost to the point of aching. — "I…"

But then, suddenly, something changed.

It was subtle at first. A tiny tremor in the lips that were about to smile. An almost invisible furrow in the brow. The eyes (e/c) that seconds before overflowed with love now widened—not with joyful surprise, but with pure, absolute horror.

(Name) recoiled abruptly, her whole body stiffening as if his touch had turned to liquid fire. The hands that had previously held his face tenderly now rose defensively, her fingers trembling violently.

— "No…" — She whispered as if something inside her had been torn apart. — "Don't come near… please…"

Apollo froze. His immortal heart, which had pounded with happiness moments before, stopped for an instant.

— "(Name)?" — He called, his voice low and incredulous, extending his hand slowly as if she were a frightened animal. — "What happened? Did I… did I say something wrong?"

She jumped to her feet, stumbling backward, her bare feet slipping on the wet stone. Her face, which seconds before had been pure light, was now pale as ash, contorted in an expression of such visceral revulsion that Apollo felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. The eyes (e/c) he knew better than his own—eyes that challenged him, that laughed with him, that gazed at him naked with confidence—now stared at him as if he were a monster from the depths of Helheim.

— "Stay away from me!" — She screamed, her voice shrill, tearing through the silent air of the valley like a blade. — "Don't touch me! Never again!"

The words struck Apollo like poisoned arrows directly into his chest. He rose slowly, his hands raised, his whole body trembling with a terror he had never, in all his divine existence, experienced. Her horror was real. (Name), the nymph who had seen him whole—with his vanity, weaknesses, sweat, flaws, and effort—and loved him despite everything, now looked at him as if he were the most repulsive thing that had ever existed.

It was unbearable.

The idea that she, the only true light of his eternity, now rejected him with such revulsion was worse than any defeat, worse than never having conquered the Twelve. It was as if the sun he had just received as his domain had been extinguished in one fell swoop, leaving only icy, empty, and eternal darkness.

— "(Name), please…" — He pleaded in a trembling voice, broken for the first time in eons. Tears—a rare thing for a god—began to form in the corners of his eyes. — "Tell me what happened. I love you. You know I love you. We just… you were going to say yes. You were going to come with me."

She shook her head frantically, her (h/c) hair flying around her pale face and her eyes filled with tears of panic that now streamed freely.

— "I can't…" — She sobbed, her voice choked with terror. — "I can't look at you! Your face… your touch… it disgusts me! Stay away! Please, stay away!

Each word was a knife twisting in Apollo's chest. Disgust. She felt disgust for him. The only person whose proximity he most desired in the universe now felt physical revulsion for him. He felt the world spin, his stomach churn, his heart shatter into pieces that no divine title could mend.

His mind raced in despair, searching for an explanation—Spell? Illusion? Possession? And then, like an internal thunderclap, he remembered Eros's words in the gardens, the bow drawn along with the veiled threat. The leaden arrow… the arrow of repulsion… had Eros been cruel enough to strike her?

The terror turned into utter despair, a black abyss threatening to swallow him whole.

— "No…" — He murmured, his eyes wide, his face pale as marble. — "Eros… what has he done to you?!"

He stepped forward, his hands outstretched in supplication, desperate to touch her, to calm her, to bring back the (Name) who had embraced him moments before, who had laughed with him, who had kissed him as if he were the only being in the universe.

— "(Name), listen to me!" — He pleaded, his voice now hoarse with anguish. — "It's a curse! I would never hurt you! You know who I am! You know me better than I know myself! You've seen me sweat, fail, cry in frustration… and you loved me anyway! Please, fight this! I love you… I love you more than light, more than the sun, more than eternity!"

But with each step he took, she recoiled further, terror growing in the eyes he loved so much, now filled with a blind, animalistic panic.

— "Don't come near!" — She screamed again. — "I feel… I feel like I'll die if you touch me! Please… leave me alone!

She trembled violently, her arms wrapped around her body as if trying to protect herself from something terrifying. Tears streamed down her face, her chest heaving in short, desperate breaths. She didn't understand what was happening; she only knew that the man she had loved seconds before now caused her a visceral, uncontrollable horror.

And then, unable to endure another second of that proximity, she turned and ran.

Apollo stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second—his heart shattered and his world in ruins—before running after her with all the strength of a god.

— "(Name)! Wait! Please!"

She ran like the wild wind that inhabited the forests. Panic propelled her forward, blind and irrational, her heart racing and her lungs burning along with the tears. She didn't know where she was going—she only knew she needed to run, that every step he took behind her was a threat to her very existence.

Apollo followed her, his divine body moving with a speed that could easily overtake her, but terror held him back—he didn't want to frighten her further, didn't want to force closeness, didn't want to be the monster her eyes now saw. Each time he got close enough to almost touch her arm, she let out a sharp cry of terror and sped away, dodging between tree trunks with desperate grace, her body trembling with exhaustion and fear.

— "(Name)!" — He pleaded, his voice choked, hoarse, broken by sobs he no longer even tried to suppress. Tears streamed freely down his divine face. — "Come back! I love you! It's a curse! I can fix this! Please, don't run away from me! You are everything to me! Everything!"

But she didn't stop. She ran as if her life depended on it, crossing the valley, entering the dense forest, weaving between trees. Her chest ached, her legs trembled, but she couldn't stop. Not while he was behind her.

Apollo followed her, his chest burning not from physical exertion, but from an anguish that threatened to destroy him from within. The idea of ​​losing her—that the girl who completed him, who made him better, who was his true light, now saw him as a monster and fled from him forever—was worse than any defeat on Valhalla, worse than non-existence. He imagined an eternity without her eyes (e/c) boldly challenging him, without the laughter echoing in the valley, without the slow kisses, without her voice. It was a black, absolute void that he couldn't bear.

— "(Name)!" — He shouted again, his voice tearing through the forest air, full of naked despair. — "Don't leave me! You're the only one! The only one in all eternity! Please, come back to me!"

She didn't look back. She just ran, ran, and ran—blind panic guiding her steps, her heart broken with terror, pulling her away from the only true love she had ever known, while Apollo chased after her with a completely shattered heart, begging fate, the gods, the entire universe, that there was still a way to bring her back before it was too late.

She didn't understand. Seconds before, the world was perfect—Apollo, the man she loved with a depth that sometimes frightened her, had just asked her to be his wife. She was going to say yes. She was going to hug him, kiss him, accept spending eternity with him. And then, as if a dark fog had invaded her mind, everything changed.

His face, which she knew in every detail—the lines of his cheekbones, the gleam in his eyes, the narcissistic smile that hid vulnerability—became repulsive. His touch, which had once made her melt, now provoked physical nausea. The sound of his voice, which she loved to hear singing or whispering her name, now terrified her. She felt as if she would die if he touched her again.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision, but she kept running, her (h/c) hair plastered to her sweaty forehead, her arms pumping at her sides as if she could ward off the horror with sheer movement.

“Why?” Her mind screamed silently. “Why does he suddenly do this to me? What happened to me?”

She didn't want to run from him. She wanted to go back, she wanted to run into his arms, she wanted the world to return to what it was five minutes before. But her body wouldn't obey. Her body betrayed her, driven by a terror that wasn't hers.

— "(Name)!" — He shouted, his voice broken, desperate, unrecognizable even to himself. — "Please, stop! I won't touch you! I swear by the rivers of the Styx! Just… stop and listen to me! I conquered the Twelve for us! For you!"

Finally, after what seemed like hours of hellish pursuit, her strength completely gave out. (Name) stumbled violently on an exposed root, falling to her knees in the center of a small clearing. Her whole body trembled in uncontrollable spasms, her lungs burning as if she were inhaling fire, her hands digging into the damp earth for support. She tried to stand, but her legs gave way again. Panic still gripped her, but her nymph-like body had reached its limit.

Apollo stopped ten meters away, also falling to his knees, his face contorted in a mask of anguish. He dared not approach any closer. Seeing her like this—exhausted, terrified, destroyed because of him—was the most unbearable sight of his entire immortal existence.

— "(Name)…" — He whispered, his voice so broken he was barely recognizable. — "I… I’m here. I won’t move. Please… look at me. Fight this. It’s Eros, he did this. I was a vain fool and provoked him, and now… now you’re suffering because of me. But I’ll fix it. I swear by my own light. I’ll go to the ends of the earth, I’ll beg Zeus, I’ll face Eros… anything. Just… don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us."

She slowly raised her face and her eyes (e/c) were swollen from crying, her face pale and dirty with tears. For a brief, very brief instant, Apollo saw a flash—a fragment of the (Name) he knew, struggling to emerge from the abyss of terror. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, as if to fight.

But horror won again. Her eyes widened once more, her body convulsed in a violent tremor.

— "I can't take it anymore…" — She sobbed, her voice weak, desperate, broken into pieces. — "I don't want to feel this… I don't want to hate you… but I feel it… I feel like I'm going crazy… help me… please, someone help me…"

And then, in a gesture of utter despair, she raised her trembling arms to the sky, her whole body bent as if carrying the weight of the world.

— "Father!" — She cried. — "Peneios! Save me! Change me! Take away this form that attracts what I can no longer bear! I beg you… transform me… anything… anything so that this stops!"

And the earth responded.

A deep tremor ran through the ground, as if the Peneios River itself, her father, had heard the cry of his daughter in agony. A sudden, cold wind, heavy with the scent of deep waters and roots, blew through the clearing, making the leaves of the trees tremble in unison. The light of dusk seemed to concentrate around her, as if destiny were weaving its final verdict.

Apollo felt the air change. He felt the divine presence, ancient and irrevocable. And he understood, in the most terrifying instant of his life, what was about to happen.

— "No…" — He murmured, his face losing all color. — "No… (Name), don't do this! Wait! I can fix it! I will fix it! PLEASE!"

He leaped to his feet, running the last few meters, his hands outstretched in desperate pleading.

— "(NAME)! LOOK AT ME! FIGHT! PLEASE! I LOVE YOU! DON'T GO! DON'T LEAVE ME!"

But it was too late.

Her feet began to change first. The smooth skin of her legs and ankles hardened, turning brown and rough like young tree bark. Her toes lengthened, sinking into the fertile earth like roots, digging deep into the soil. (Name) screamed—a long, heart-rending scream, full of physical and emotional pain, a sound Apollo felt as if his own heart were being ripped out.

— "(NAME)!" — He yelled, falling to his knees again beside her, his hands hovering over the forming trunk, not daring to touch. — "NO! STOP! PLEASE, PENEIOS, DON'T TAKE HER FROM ME! I BEG YOU!"

Her legs merged completely, becoming a straight, firm trunk. Her arms rose higher, her fingers branching into delicate twigs, sprouting bright green, spear-shaped leaves. Her torso widened, the silvery bark covering the skin he had kissed so many times. Her (h/c) hair, which he loved to twirl in his fingers while she slept resting on his shoulder, blended into the canopy, becoming undulating foliage that trembled in the wind as if still weeping.

Her face—the last to change—contorted in a final expression of anguish, her (e/c) eyes fixed on his for an eternal second with a farewell she didn't want to give. Then the bark rose, covering the features he knew by heart, transforming them into wood.

Apollo embraced the trunk with desperate force, his face pressed against the still-warm bark from the transformation, feeling the last vestige of warmth disappear beneath his fingers.

— "(Name)…" — He sobbed, his voice completely broken, his body convulsing with cries that came from the depths of his immortal soul. — "No… no… come back… please, come back to me… I can’t take it… I can’t take it without you…"

He fell sideways onto the earth, his arms still wrapped around the trunk of the newborn laurel tree, his face buried in the roots that were now her feet. He wept as no god had ever wept—deep sobs that shook his entire body, tears soaking the earth around him. The despair was absolute and utterly overwhelming, a pain that transcended anything physical. He, who had conquered the sun, who had mastered light and prophecy, was now destroyed, reduced to nothing, because the only person who gave meaning to his existence had been torn from him forever.

— "You were everything…" — He whispered against the bark, his voice almost inaudible between sobs. — "My light… my flame… my only one… I love you… I love you so much it hurts more than anything… forgive me… please forgive me for being vain… for provoking Eros… for causing this…"

The wind blew softly through the new laurel leaves, a sound that seemed like a distant whisper, almost a sigh. Apollo slowly raised his face, his eyes swollen and red, and with trembling hands gathered a crown of the still tender leaves, then remained there, embracing the trunk, weeping in the darkness that fell over the clearing, until night covered everything.

The Sun God, who should have illuminated the world, was now enveloped in darkness deeper than any night, embracing the trunk of the first laurel tree, weeping for the only one fate had stolen from him forever.

The ninth round ended with Apollo standing.

Now his body was supported by Python, who carried him to recover. His face, once an immaculate symbol of divine beauty, now bore a fresh, jagged scar right in the center, still bleeding. He still felt a sharp pang of physical pain, but it was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the pain he had carried for millennia, a wound that no nectar could heal, no victory could soothe.

Not a single day had passed, in all the eons since that fateful clearing, that Apollo hadn't thought of (Name).

As Python carried him, his mind returned, as it always did, to those final moments. To her desperate cry calling for her father, to the bark rising from the skin he had kissed so many times, the warmth fading beneath his desperate fingers.

He remembered, with a clarity that tortured him, how he had gone completely mad after the transformation. Artemis, his twin sister, had found him days later still embracing the tree trunk, his nails digging into the bark until it bled, still screaming her name until his voice failed him. Other gods had tried to calm him, but none had succeeded. Apollo had hated Eros with an intensity that burned hotter than the very sun he commanded—a blind and voracious hatred that had lasted for centuries, only appeased when the other gods, fearing he would destroy half of Olympus in an incandescent revenge, intervened with solemn oaths, veiled threats, and finally, the temporary exile of the God of Love, despite Aphrodite's protests.

In the millennia that followed, Apollo had tried, in every possible way, to fill the void (Name) had left. Nymphs came in droves—beautiful, graceful, ethereal, some even as daring as she had been. He lay with them, kissed their lips that smiled at him with adulation, touched bodies that offered themselves with desire, heard whispers of love.

But none—none of them—came even close to touching the wound, much less healing it.

Their eyes lacked (Name)'s wild and honest challenge. Their laughter didn't echo with the same freedom, the same tender provocation. Their touches didn't heal like hers, didn't make his soul burn with that perfect mixture of admiration and vulnerability. Every time he closed his eyes during an embrace, it was her face he saw; every time a nymph spoke his name in ecstasy, it was her voice he longed to hear. All were faded figures of a light that had been extinguished forever, leaving him in a darkness that no sun could completely dispel.

The laurel leaves he wore in his hair, even now, wounded and exhausted after the battle, were not a mortal replica or a divine imitation. These were the very same leaves he had plucked from the original laurel tree—the one she had become, preserved forever. Each leaf was a piece of her. Each leaf was a reminder that he had failed to protect her, that his vain pride had cost him his own love.

Over time, their story—or rather, a distorted version of it—spread among mortals like a poetic and tragic myth. They told it around campfires, in theaters, in temples, about the nymph pursued by the god Apollo, fleeing his burning desire until she begged the river father to transform her into a laurel tree.

Mortals, in their simplicity, now called her "Daphne", her true name had been lost to time. But what pained Apollo most was what had been erased—the most beautiful part, the true part. The bards and poets had omitted their mutual love. In their versions, he was merely the vain pursuer, struck by Eros's golden arrow, while she had already suffered the repulsion of the leaden arrow from the beginning.

Their profound love and partnership were lost in the mists of time, reduced to a moral lesson about unrequited desire. Apollo heard these stories echoing in the temples dedicated to him and felt his chest tighten even more—mortals honored his victory with laurel wreaths, unaware that each leaf was a dagger in his soul.

As Python carefully laid him on a bed, Apollo closed his eyes and let his mind wander to where it always wandered—to her.

“What would you think of all this, (Name)?” He thought, his inner voice as weary as his broken body, burdened with a longing that never diminished. “This tournament… gods fighting against humans… me here, bleeding in the arena like a common gladiator, having to prove my worth with blood, sweat, and scars that I choose to keep… you would laugh at me, wouldn’t you? You would say, with that audacity that only you had, that my vanity finally put me in the right place, forced to sweat for real, like in the old days when I punched tree trunks alone and you would show up to correct me. You would applaud my most precise blows and boo my mistakes, you would clap when I hit the target. You would say that I still swing my fist the wrong way when I’m too angry.”

A solitary tear trickled down the corner of his eye, mingling with the dried blood on the new scar that crossed his face.

“You would find Leonidas beautiful, wouldn’t you? For his soul ablaze until his last breath, for his effort that fears no death. You always saw beauty where I, blinded by vanity, was slow to see. And I fought thinking of you the whole time, every time I rose after falling to the cracked ground… it was to prove that the man you loved still exists somewhere within this vain god. That I am still worthy, even if only slightly, of the love you gave me before everything crumbled because of me.”

For a brief moment, while physical pain throbbed in his shattered body and the exhaustion of battle enveloped him like a heavy cloak, Apollo allowed a treacherous, cold, and seductive thought to cross his mind.

“If I had lost… if Leonidas had brought me down once and for all… perhaps it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

To cease to exist. To fade away like a flame in a strong wind. The only true way to silence, once and for all, the pain that had haunted him since that clearing. No longer to wake up to the echo of her scream in his ears. No longer to look at a laurel tree and see the face he had lost. No longer to carry the crushing weight of an eternity without the only true love he had ever known. Nothingness would be relief—an emptiness without memories, without regret, and above all without the pain of longing.

But the thought passed as quickly as it came, leaving only a bitter void and renewed guilt. Because even that—even nothingness—would be cowardice. It would be abandoning the only thing that still bound him to her, the stubborn and fragile, almost childlike hope that one day, somehow, there could be redemption.

Python walked away silently, leaving him alone in the room. Apollo opened his eyes slowly, looking at the translucent ceiling as if he could see through it.

“If you still exist there, (Name)… if any piece of your soul, of your wild and daring essence, remains trapped in these leaves, in these deep roots… I will continue.”

He brought his trembling hand to the laurel wreath, touching the leaves as if they were her skin, still warm from the sun they shared.

“I will continue fighting… in eternal life. I will continue carrying this pain as a burden I deserve. I will continue wearing your leaves as a crown, even if they remind me every day of what I lost because of my foolish vanity. Because if there is the slightest chance, the slightest, however impossible it may seem, that one day you will forgive me, that one day I might deserve again the love you gave me so freely… I will wait. An eternity and another. As many as necessary. I will persist until time itself bends, until fate tires of punishing us.”

Apollo closed his eyes again, a final tear running down his temple.

“I love you, (Name). Still and always. More than the day you ran away from me. More than the day you changed. And if you're still there, somewhere among the roots and the leaves… wait for me. I will find a way to bring you back. Or at least… to deserve that you look at me again without horror, with the same love I never stopped feeling.”

The Sun God, wounded in body and eternally wounded in soul, fell asleep in bed carrying in his chest a pain that no title could erase, waiting for the day when fate, perhaps, would take pity and return his beloved to his arms.