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Artemis is, surprisingly, doing nothing when Apollo arrives. It is unlike her to partake in such dull mindlessness – Agrotera Artemis largely prefers to be amongst the immortals she tentatively calls friends, feet thumping against the forest floor with the thrill of their newest hunt coursing through her golden veins. However, even the most active gods require a little rest and relaxation, and that is how the maiden of the hunt found herself lounging about, fingers toying with the unstrung string of her longbow.
Phoebus Apollo appears the way a sunray might glimmer through a window – shimmering into existence. His presence is denoted by the glare of light that predates his appearance to momentarily blind her, presumably for irritation's sake. Her brother's form glimmers once, twice, then solidifies.
“Sister dearest,” He greets cordially, a smile playing on the corner of his lips. His eyes shine with a light Artemis only sees moments before disaster and – Oh. Oh no.
She sighs, resigned to her hedonistic brother's newest infatuation. “Who is it this time?”
Eyes shining with amusement, he responds with a lovestruck expression and words of passion, “A spartan prince, one who's beauty exceeds many. A god-fearing man, righteous and cordial, who offers nothing but the best. Oh, Hyacinthus!”
Atermis rolls her eyes. Such a childish little brother she has. She waves her hand back and forth a little, to dismiss him. Her care for the puny mortal prince is almost as infinitesimal as the life he lives. Apollo, seeing this action, throws himself onto the couch beside her. A hand pressed across his brow in the mimicry of death, he cries, “Loathed I must be, for not even my sister will deign to listen to my woes!”
A glare is sent his way, although it is ignored unceremoniously. “Your ‘woes’ are trivialities that will pass within the next decade. This mortal is no different. Do not curse him, should he fail to accept your advances.”
“My ego is not so fragile,” he frowns. A lie, obviously. His temperament is famously volatile. “But fear not, sister. He worships me so – it is no great difficulty to attain his hand.”
“Why are you here, Apollo?” She grumbles, unassuaged by his reassurance. “You know as well as I, that I have no interest in your indulgences.”
He huffs, unsurprised. “No reason – I simply wish for you to lay eyes on him for yourself. Perhaps then, you too, will understand why I desire him so.”
She frowns, this one more real than its predecessors. “I am the goddess of chastity,” Artemis reminds flatly.
Apollo scoffs. “Don't be so grouchy, sister. I know your vows as well as you know mine. This meeting is simply so you see that he is as deserving of godly protection as I wholeheartedly believe he is.”
An eyebrow is raised in surprise, at that. “The mortal is finite, ephemeral. There is no protection the gods can offer from the grasp of Hades, lest he is blessed to have golden ichor run through his veins. Surely, you do not intend to do as such?”
There is a bout of silence, in which Apollo does nothing but seemingly contemplate, staring into the wall with a slightly sheepish expression. Artemis interrupts her interlocutor's silence.
“You're not serious.” Her tone is monotone, dry.
“Come see him with me.”
“He's a mortal prince.”
“I know that.”
“You swore on the Styx.”
“Gods, Artemis, I don't plan to wed him,” Apollo expresses, exasperated.
“And you believe an immortal boyfriend is different? If you truly love him so, you will eventually desire to break your oath. When that day comes, not even Father can protect you from Styx's wrath.”
Apollo swallows, adams apple bobbing. Then, he makes a choice, and takes a breath.
“Come see him with me. He is perfect, the model human.”
And what of your love life?” Artemis presses, “You fall in love far too easily to remain monogamous. Your disastrous affairs strike Olympus as common gossip. He is but a prince.”
“He is no mere prince, and he is–” He disrupts the beginnings of his speech, pinching his nose bridge with a sigh of annoyance.
“You'll understand. I'll tell you in Sparta. Come see him with me,” Apollo insists.
“There is no reason I should see him. Hades will take him when the Fates decree it, and no moment before.”
“It isn't Uncle that threatens him!” Apollo nearly shouts, frustration evident.
A scoff of derision strikes the air, as Artemis stands up. “If he is indeed as perfect as you claim, he will have attracted no god's ire. Either he is not, or you are lying, and if the god of truth himself speaks falsehoods, perhaps Aletheia should take your tongue.”
Apollo is uncharacteristically silent, simmering in conflict and anger. At last, he responds with nothing more than a repeated insistence.
“Come see him with me,” He says through gritted teeth.
Artemis takes a long breath, silencing her doubts. “Fine. I'll see your newest infatuation.”
He seems to bite back a retort, possibly on the status of the Spartan as an ‘infatuation’. Extending a hand, Apollo schools his expression into that of the laid-back god he appears to be. Artemis eyes his hand for a moment. Really, it isn't like Artemis doesn't know where Sparta is. In fact, she could probably locate it better than he, considering the sphere of her influence. Still, she takes his hand without complaint.
The twins disappear in a flash of sunlight.
—
“Is that him?”
“Hyacinthus? Yes. Isn't he beautiful?” Apollo sighs, that of a lovesick maiden.
He doesn't look like much, at first glance. Pretty, certainly. Hyacinthus strides as a prince does, languidly, yet elegant with years of tutoring. There is nothing particularly unique about his appearance, though. He does not rival gods in strength, wit, or beauty. Truly, Artemis does not see the appeal. Still, she owes it to Apollo to at least take a closer glance, she supposes. He is kind, at least. He makes ample sacrifice to the gods, and treats his subjects with kindness, not condescension. Beautiful, kind, god-fearing – phrases befitting this mortal. She frowns, slightly. Apollo would like him, perhaps bear a child with him – but she does not see why he would love him.
“I don't see the appeal,” She provides flatly.
“But you see why I do, no?” He grins winsomely, eyes tracking Hyacinthus’ every move.
She does not, but she concedes.
“Which god wishes him dead?” She deflects, turning to face him.
“None.”
Artemis frowns. “But you said–”
“Yes, he is deserving of protection.”
“From whom?” Artemis grouses. Irritation bubbles beneath the surface of her skin, threatening to spark.
Apollo frowns. It is not unlike that of a temperamental child. “He is beautiful,” He says instead. “Many desire him. Even gods.”
Something clicks in her head, then. She sighs, and it carries with it the weight of four thousand years worth of exasperation. “You do all of this… say all of this… drag me here… because he,” She gestures to the prince below them, obliviously moving on with his life. Artemis wishes she could do the same. “Is desired by other gods? Brother, you are an Olympian. Surely, you can fight off his suitors alone.”
Apollo honest-to-god pouts. “The West Wind wishes to wrest him from my grasp.”
Artemis is sure her eye twitches. “You can handle Zephyrus,” she enunciates.
“No…I,” Apollo pauses to chew at his bottom lip, a pathetically human gesture. He casts his gaze away from his sister, to face the mortal beneath them. He eyes the prince's smile, takes in the way he shifts and moves with every step he takes. Looking unbearably in love, he mumbles – as if it wasn't obvious enough – “I love him.”
Artemis nods, and he continues. His words twist, but it is unlike the god of poetry and prophecy to be direct, after all. “Uncharacteristically, sister, I have fallen in love. It does not feel like it did when damned Eros cursed me to infatuate with Daphene – no, this is something different. I loath to say I have fallen in love, for no love I feel for him could ever see me fall. With him, love feels like flying, like soaring above even gods.” It is earnest, the way Apollo speaks, and it wrenches at something deep, deep in her chest.
“I love him sister, and may Death never take him from me. I love him, and that–” He swallows. “That is why I do not wish to force him to love me.”
Artemis is silent for a long while, after that. “Have you spoken to him?” She asks at last. Apollo nods.
“Once. He was respectful. I suspect he fears me.”
“Brother,” Artemis pinches at her nose bridge in annoyance, but her voice is soft, almost gentle. “Speak to him. You fear so much, your paranoia has begun to resemble Father's. If you believe he should choose, let him. Go to him, court him – convince him to choose you.”
Apollo blinks at her owlishly – Artemis briefly relates him to Athena, even though they have little in common – surprised by her directness, and her helpfulness. Maybe his own truthfulness, too. For the god of it, he was not very direct at all. He licks at his lips, wetting them before responding, “Yeah. I'll– I'll go do that.”
He shimmers and vanishes, leaving nothing but a mirage in his wake. Artemis herself intends to leave, but amusement convinces her to stay – and maybe a tinge of concern, not that she'd ever mention it out loud. Below her, Apollo makes his appearance as a young, blond man, and Artemis scoffs. He hardly looks disguised, his eyes the usual shade of blue-green-yellow, hair like woven, metallic gold. The only notable difference is his distinctively less-gold chiton, now a plain white.
Hyacinthus startles at his sudden appearance, hurriedly offering a kneel to the god. Apollo decrees him to stand, and converses with him one-sidedly, face flushed with ichor. Not that anyone other than a god would have noticed. The prince still looks astounded, she thinks, with a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He tentatively speaks, and the way Apollo lights up is as funny as it is pitiful. Assured, Artemis turns on her heel and leaves, aware of the eyes that watch her disappear behind clouds.
—
Here's a clandestine fact; Apollo is as human as he is god. They all are, one way or another. It does not discount the ichor that runs through all their veins, nor does it discredit the thousands of years they have been alive – but it is a fact that is prevalent in their every move, whether her brethren choose to acknowledge it or not. A walking contradiction is what all gods are – beings of incredible power, capable of impossible feats and immortal life – who choose to look human, mortal, temporary. Humanity was made in the gods' image, and yet the gods fear them so. Fear the mortality they have, which they cannot imagine ever falling prey to.
In a way, it is intriguing, and admirable. Humans spend their lives waiting for Death to take them, and wait to be judged before ghosts of their own kind. And yet, she muses, they seem to have so much more to live for.
Gods are eternal, and humans are not. This is an unshakeable fact, no matter how often the lines blur with every ascension and punishment. Still, humans forge relationships with lifelong bonds, fall in love, find passion in what they do – and gods cannot do the same. They have family, immediate and removed, and they were conceived by mothers, grew up around their kind, but the intrinsic nature of a god is to be immortal, and immortal they will stay. Immortal does not mean inhuman, though, and Artemis wonders if her godly kind understand this. The blood that runs through their veins does not make them cold, does not make them apathetic. Instead, it is the ever marching tick of Time’s clock that does so. In fruitless effort to stave off boredom and uselessness, they are assigned roles, jobs to do until the end of time, and these jobs are meant to fulfill them.
Humans wish to feel free, unrestrained – yet the beings who grant them these wishes are bound themselves. In this way, they are not so different. Slaves to the Fates, all of them. The roles they play are integral to the world, this Artemis does not dispute, but how long until the flames of the passion they were made for die out? There are times that she wonders if Hera gets tired of being a wife, a mother, wonders if Ares grows weary of his war and violence, wonders if Aphrodite cracks under the pressure of her identity. These are things she wonders in the silence of her mind, words that will never see the light of day, that will never leave her lips. Perhaps it is because Artemis finds herself in the company of humans more often than not, but she finds herself contemplating this more often than her peers. Artemis knows she tends to act more aloof than even her oldest companions, and she thinks they know that too. Here lies the difference between a god and a human:
Gods have no purpose.
When death is a bygone dream that will never be reached, an end point so far out of sight that there is functionally none at all, where does that leave them? A story that goes on forever is effectively no story at all. There is no lesson to be learnt, no moral to be taught, no satisfaction to be gleaned. The roles they play are nothing more than hobbies to pass the time, the way Apollo involves himself with mortals just to feel something, the way Ares takes a stand in every war to experience mortality, the way Athena finds herself watching mortals for one with exceptional talent. There is nothing for them in this world.
Apollo is just like them. However, Artemis finds his persistence admirable, not that she would ever tell him so. He suffers heartbreak over heartbreak, loss of lovers but a speck in his life, yet he finds a way to pull together enough of his heart to give to his next, so that he will once again shed tears when they fall. He loses and loses and loses, and still falls in love time and time again. Artemis is… proud of him. He accepts that his immortality sets him apart from his mortal companions, and he loves them regardless. So, she watches with nothing short of familial love as her little brother falls, and deep down, she accepts that she will do nothing about it, no matter how exasperated she might act. In the end, as the only pair of twins in the pantheon, she knows that they only have each other. They have each other, and that is more than most gods can say.
Apollo and Artemis are intrinsically connected in a way no other gods are, so she will watch without complaint as he gives his heart away, and she will catch the fallen pieces with love when it inevitably shatters, and piece him back together – because she knows he would do the same for her in a heartbeat.