Chapter Text
The music god had been wandering, as he often did when the days stretched too long, when a melody caught his ear. It wasn’t the divine harmonies of Olympus or the practiced notes of an artist trained in his name—no, this was something else. A mortal voice, raw and true, humming a tune that made Apollo pause mid-flight.
Curious, he followed the sound, weaving between golden clouds until he found its source: a lone sailor on a great ship, his back turned to the world as he hummed, gaze lost to the endless sea.
Apollo grinned. With a burst of golden light, he descended just close enough to make himself known.
“Hello there!” he called cheerfully.
The sailor startled so violently that Apollo had to stifle a laugh. The man whipped around, eyes wide with wariness, fingers twitching toward his belt as though expecting an ambush. Apollo held up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning.
“No need for that! I’m just admiring the melody you were making. Quite lovely, really.”
The sailor narrowed his eyes. “...Who are you?”
“Apollo.”
That made him stiffen. His wariness turned into something more respectful, though no less cautious. “The god?”
Apollo tilted his head playfully. “Do you know any other Apollos?”
The sailor didn’t answer at first. Then, after a slow breath, he said, “Eurylochus of Same.”
Apollo found himself rolling the name around in his mind, feeling its weight. A fine name. A poetic name.
“A pleasure, Eurylochus of Same,” he said, testing the way it felt on his tongue. “Tell me, will you sing for me?”
Eurylochus blinked, clearly thrown. “Sing... for you?”
“Of course! I heard you humming, and I liked it. I want to hear more.”
Eurylochus looked as though he wanted to protest, but he hesitated, glancing at the god before him. Whatever battle waged in his mind, he surrendered to it with a sigh. “If it is what you wish.”
And so, he sang.
Apollo found himself utterly enchanted.
For the next eight days, Apollo returned. He always found a way to linger near the ship, waiting for a moment when Eurylochus was alone. At first, it was just to hear him sing, but soon he stayed for the conversation.
Eurylochus was serious but not unkind, gruff but not cruel. He spoke of his crew, of their hardships, of his captain—Odysseus of Ithaca. A name Apollo knew well from Athena’s endless musings. But he did not mention this.
Instead, he listened. And listened.
And found himself growing fond.
By the third day, he no longer waited for Eurylochus to hum first—he simply appeared, startling the man. They spoke of many things, and Apollo, in turn, gave him gifts. Small things, but meaningful. A polished seashell that shimmered unnaturally in the light, a golden-threaded cloth to keep the salt wind from biting too hard, a small lyre he claimed had been lying around Olympus.
Eurylochus accepted them with hesitance at first. But he did not refuse.
Even the other gods noticed Apollo’s good spirits. He had always been a radiant god, but something about him shone even brighter these days.
Then came the ninth day.
When Apollo arrived, Eurylochus was not humming. He was leaning against the ship’s mast, tense, his hands gripping his arms like he was trying to steady himself.
Apollo frowned, descending beside him. “What troubles you?”
Eurylochus exhaled heavily. “The crew. The captain.”
Apollo waited.
After a long pause, Eurylochus muttered, “The wind bag.”
Now that was not a phrase Apollo had expected.
Eurylochus ran a hand over his face, visibly frustrated. “Aeolus gifted Odysseus a bag of winds, sealed tight to guide us home. But the crew… they’re growing restless, whispering doubts. We’ve been at sea for so long, and Odysseus refuses to explain, refuses to share his knowledge. They’re starting to think…” He trailed off, shoulders tense. “I—I tried to reason with them, but—”
Apollo didn’t let him finish. With a sigh, he pulled Eurylochus into an embrace, resting a hand on the back of his head. “Enough. Rest.”
Eurylochus stiffened at first, but Apollo merely hummed, the sound gentle and lulling, like the warmth of the sun on a cool morning. Slowly, Eurylochus’s shoulders eased. His breaths evened. And soon, Apollo felt the mortal’s weight sag against him.
Asleep.
Apollo smiled. Carefully, he lifted Eurylochus and carried him below deck, placing him in a hammock. Mortals. So fragile. So tired.
And then—he saw it.
A small, mischievous winion drifting nearby. Not an ordinary creature—one of Aeolus’s creations, sent to stir up trouble among men.
Apollo stared at it. Deadpan.
Ah. So that was why his favorite mortal was feeling down.
With a quiet huff, Apollo turned toward the sky, his usual warmth replaced by something far more pointed.
Other gods had their favorites. They interfered, they meddled, they bestowed their favor without hesitation.
Why should Apollo be any different?