Work Text:
There was a place at the edge of Olympus where the gods rarely visited. It was not a temple, not a sacred place, it was nothing.
Quite literally, in fact.
The marble path stopped abruptly, the clouds parted to reveal the mortal world far, far below. Delicate. Glittering. So close and yet so very far away.
It was the place where Hephaestus had been thrown from the City of the Gods, all those years ago. It was the place where Apollo had been cast out, once, twice, three times now. One would think he'd have learned his lesson the first time. Well, Mortals had that saying about the third time, right? Maybe there was something to that.
Apollo found himself drawn there more often than he used to. Some days he sat and watched and listened to his brain go quiet. Other days he toed the edge of the path, brain buzzing with thoughts and memories and feelings he didn't know how to explain.
Gods didn't need to sleep, not really. But Lester had. He remembered it. The weight of exhaustion, the burn of fatigue, the ache for the nearest flat surface to close his eyes and shut his brain off for just a few hours. Apollo craved it more now than he did as Lester.
He'd thought that being a god would make the dreams nicer. He hadn't slept much before, but he remembered it being somewhat pleasant. The dreams he had nowadays were anything but. He woke most nights gasping. Choking on phantom poison or smoke or the coppery taste of Lester's blood. Ichor tasted nothing like blood. He would know. He'd press his hand to his chest, panic a moment when he didn't feel a heartbeat, then fall still when he caught a glimpse of his divine being in the mirror. There was always a mirror, no matter how many he broke.
Other nights, like tonight, he found himself wandering. His palace, opulent as it was and always had been, felt suffocating. His skin itched and tingled unpleasantly, which was far worse as a god than as a mortal. He was alone, as he always was nowadays. Some left him alone to “adjust”, while others he feigned being in the throes of a musical inspiration to avoid. Artemis was off Olympus with her Hunters. He wasn't sure if he was glad or disappointed.
But he hadn't written anything since returning to Olympus. Not anything worth sharing. Everyone liked the happy stuff, the songs and sonnets that praised them as gods. He hadn't been able to write anything like that since his return. He didn't even know when the last time he'd held his lyre was, nor even where it was. He vaguely remembered the splintered wood, the snapped strings. But surely he hadn’t—he wouldn't have—right? Gods didn't forget things, and Apollo was a god.
Even if sometimes he wished he wasn't.
He stopped suddenly, found himself at the edge of Olympus once again. He stared down at the Mortal world below, brain buzzing with the memory of his fall, of the burning sensation as his father stripped away his divinity, of the icy chill that remained after. He hadn't realized how cold he'd been as Lester, not until he was Apollo again.
If he focused, he knew he'd be able to see his children, to check on them. Will, likely in the infirmary though he should be sleeping. Kayla, sprawled out on her bed at home, fingers twitching as if dreaming about her bow. Austin, editing a video for his YouTube channel. He made a mental note to like and comment on the secret account he'd made to subscribe.
And Georgina, sleeping peacefully surrounded by her mothers’ love and support. At least until a vision woke her. His prophets always suffered far more than they deserved. The gods speak, and the mortals burn. And it's always the kind ones who catch fire first.
Only four. Four when there had been dozens. His poor children. They deserved better.
The buzzing in his brain wouldn't let him focus, however. The burning under his skin was too distracting. The sun would be rising in a few hours, and he was expected to rise with it. But he was tired of the sun.
The irony was not lost on him.
It was his domain, his to command, to rise, to set. But every time he drove that fiery chariot across the sky, a part of him fractured. He felt something deep inside of him splinter and wither and die.
Not literally, of course. Immortality stretched out ahead of him like a prison with no doors, no walls, no windows, no halls. Oh, hey, there's the poetry. There's no release, no end. Nothing really to look forward to, so nothing really to live for.
And for the first time that Apollo can remember, he wanted it to stop. Not the pain. He could survive that, he had survived it. Survived far worse by a being far more powerful than he. Was he though? Meg had thought that Nero was more powerful than she and look how that had turned out.
No, the thing that ate at him was the emptiness. The shallow, hollow feeling, absent of pain or fear or true joy.
He missed the ache in his bones, the sure weight of mortality. The tightness of lungs more physical that he was used to. The sting of wounds that lasted longer than a mere blink. He missed the reality of it, the intimacy of being vulnerable. He missed the cold. Gods weren't supposed to miss things like that.
He missed being mortal. Being Lester.
More importantly, he missed not being Apollo.
He drew in a slow breath. It didn't shake like he felt it should. His hands were steady when he glanced down at them. Flawless, unscarred, wrong, no matter how hard or how often he tried to change it. Not even breaking the mirrors changed that. His knees were steady as he took a step forward, his toes barely scraping the edge of the path, millimeters from open air.
Not for the first time, he wondered what would happen if he fell as a god. Not cast out. Not exiled. Just…fell. Or jumped. Gravity and godhood meeting halfway in the silence between heartbeats.
Would he reform? Would the Earth catch him and swallow him whole? Would he burn brighter than a comet, or fade away like morning mist? Would he cease to exist? Wouldn't that be nice?
The urge to find out was exceptionally strong, so strong that he lifted his foot, hovered it over empty air-
“What are you doing?"
Apollo hesitated for a moment longer, then stepped back, not bothering to turn around. “What do you want, Hermes?”
Hermes’ wings fluttered, feathers whispering as he approached. “Well, you're gonna miss the party,” he said, voice cheerful and teasing. Apollo didn't miss the way he glanced down at his feet, the flash of…something in his eyes.
Apollo bit back the urge to sigh again. “Im not going,” he said instead. “You'll have to send Father my condolences.” He couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his voice.
“Oh, but the parties are so dreadfully boring without you there,” Hermes said, draping an arm across Apollo's shoulders, arm a little too firm, the grip on his shoulder a little too tight as he steered them away from the edge. “And I hear that Athena and Ares are on the outs again, so there's bound to be a fight. I know you so enjoy watching those. Hephaestus has already placed ten drachma on Athena winning without a single blow.”
Apollo said nothing, just let Hermes steer him back toward Olympus proper as he rattled on about the various bets. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at the gap in the clouds that signaled the end of Olympus.
He missed the flash of terror in his brother's eyes. Missed the silent exchange with a grey-eyed owl and green eyed dove perched in a tree nearby.