Chapter Text
There were, Apollo had learned, certain disadvantages to being a famous singer named Apollo.
People made sun jokes.
Constantly.
Interviewers asked whether his parents had been mythology fans.
Constantly.
Every album review eventually used the words godlike vocals, which Apollo appreciated but found painfully unoriginal.
And approximately once every six months, someone offered him a role based on Greek mythology.
Usually Apollo.
Naturally.
The newest offer arrived while Apollo was eating breakfast.
Percy sat across from him reading something on his tablet, one hand wrapped around a mug.
Apollo opened the email.
Then stopped.
Percy looked up.
“No.”
Apollo frowned.
“I have not said anything.”
“You made the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make before you tell me something that's going to become my problem.”
Apollo looked offended.
“My expressions are not that predictable.”
Percy went back to reading.
“They are.”
Apollo continued staring at the email.
Percy lasted approximately eight seconds.
“What?”
Apollo smiled.
“I have been offered a film role.”
Percy looked up again.
“Okay.”
“A significant role.”
“Congratulations.”
Apollo waited.
Percy narrowed his eyes.
“What role?”
Apollo turned the laptop.
Percy read.
Then looked at Apollo.
Then back at the screen.
Then back at Apollo.
“No.”
Apollo grinned.
“Yes.”
“They want you to play Apollo.”
“They recognize talent.”
“They want Apollo to play Apollo.”
“Yes.”
“And they don't know you're Apollo.”
“Correct.”
Percy put his mug down.
“Absolutely do it.”
Apollo blinked.
That was not the response he expected.
“I thought you were going to tell me this was a terrible idea.”
“Oh, it is.”
Percy was smiling now.
“That’s why you have to do it.”
Apollo leaned back.
“My husband enjoys my suffering.”
“Very much.”
“I feel unsupported.”
“You married me.”
“That is repeatedly used against me.”
Percy picked up his mug again.
“So are you taking it?”
Apollo looked back at the message.
The film was a modern adaptation of several Greek myths. Apollo was apparently supposed to be a major supporting character.
The production wanted “a charismatic performer with musical ability, dramatic presence, and believable confidence bordering on arrogance.”
Percy had already started laughing.
Apollo looked at him.
“What?”
Percy pointed at the screen.
“They wrote your casting description by accident.”
“I do not possess confidence bordering on arrogance.”
Percy stared.
Apollo reconsidered.
“Not anymore.”
Percy kept staring.
Apollo sighed.
“Fine. Rarely.”
Percy took another sip.
“Take the role.”
Apollo smiled.
“I shall.”
“And don't tell them.”
Apollo froze.
Percy immediately pointed at him.
“No.”
“I said nothing.”
“I know that face too.”
Apollo frowned.
“You expect me to allow a production about my own life to proceed while everyone believes me merely to be an actor?”
“Yes.”
“That is dishonest.”
“You have spent decades pretending to be mortal.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
Apollo opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Percy smiled.
“Exactly.”
Apollo crossed his arms.
“I make no promises.”
Percy groaned.
The director's name was Daniel Hart.
Apollo liked him immediately.
This was unfortunate.
Daniel was in his forties, permanently caffeinated, and possessed the exhausted air of a man who had spent the previous eight months arguing with producers.
He shook Apollo's hand at their first meeting.
“Really glad you're here.”
Apollo smiled.
“The pleasure is mine.”
“I'll be honest. The name was part of the pitch.”
Apollo blinked.
“The name.”
Daniel gestured toward him.
“Apollo playing Apollo.”
“Ah.”
“The marketing department loves it.”
“Of course.”
Daniel laughed.
“Your agent said you're interested?”
“Very.”
“Acting experience?”
Apollo smiled.
“A little.”
That answer should have concerned Percy.
Percy was not present.
Therefore nobody stopped Apollo.
Daniel nodded.
“You've done a couple films.”
“Yes.”
“And stage?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
Apollo considered several thousand years of performance tradition.
“A fair amount.”
Daniel nodded and wrote something down.
Apollo tried not to smile.
They discussed the script.
Apollo had opinions.
This was inevitable.
Daniel reached a scene involving the Oracle of Delphi.
Apollo lifted one finger.
“No.”
Daniel stopped.
“No?”
“That is not how that worked.”
Daniel looked at the page.
“The prophecy?”
“The entire scene.”
Daniel leaned back.
Apollo continued.
“The Pythia did not sit around waiting dramatically in a poorly ventilated cave so I could appear in golden light and speak through her like a theatrical ventriloquist.”
Daniel stared.
Apollo paused.
“Generally.”
Daniel slowly smiled.
“You've done your research.”
Apollo smiled back.
“You could say that.”
“Good. I like actors who care.”
Apollo decided not to comment.
They continued.
Ten pages later:
“No.”
Daniel looked up.
“What now?”
“That hymn is anachronistic.”
Daniel blinked.
Apollo pointed.
“You are placing a later tradition into an earlier setting.”
Daniel looked impressed.
“You really did research this.”
Apollo's smile became strained.
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later:
“Daphne scene.”
Apollo stopped smiling.
Daniel noticed.
“We're handling it carefully.”
Apollo read.
He remained quiet for a moment.
Then nodded.
“This is better than most.”
“High praise.”
“It is still inaccurate.”
Daniel laughed.
“There it is.”
Apollo looked at him.
Daniel put down his pen.
“Can I ask something?”
“You may.”
“Why this role?”
Apollo tilted his head.
Daniel continued.
“You don't need the movie. Your music career is huge. You could pick almost anything. Why play Apollo?”
Apollo considered telling him.
Not the joke answer.
The real one.
Because mortals had been telling stories about him for millennia.
Because those stories had changed.
Because sometimes he barely recognized himself inside them.
Because Lester had taught him that being remembered and being understood were not the same thing.
Because somewhere between mortality and immortality, Apollo had become curious about what it would feel like to portray himself while pretending not to be himself.
Instead, he said:
“I have always felt a personal connection to the character.”
Daniel smiled.
“That makes sense.”
Apollo nearly choked.
Percy heard about the meeting that evening.
“All I did was offer historical corrections.”
“You told him the Pythia wasn't a theatrical ventriloquist.”
“She was not.”
“I know.”
“The popular conception—”
“I know.”
Apollo stopped.
Percy was making dinner.
Apollo sat at the kitchen counter.
“You are supposed to support historical accuracy.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you laughing?”
Percy looked over his shoulder.
“Because you lasted one meeting.”
“I did not reveal anything.”
“You corrected the script in first-person tone.”
“I did no such thing.”
Percy raised an eyebrow.
Apollo looked away.
“There may have been moments.”
“Uh-huh.”
Apollo watched his husband for a second.
Then said:
“I like the director.”
“That makes this worse.”
“How?”
“Because now when you inevitably tell him you're Apollo, you're going to feel bad when his brain breaks.”
Apollo sighed.
“I am capable of discretion.”
Percy turned around.
Apollo met his eyes.
Percy waited.
Apollo sighed again.
“Some discretion.”
Rehearsals began three weeks later.
Apollo's first costume fitting nearly ended the project.
“No.”
The costume designer looked alarmed.
“What?”
Apollo held up a golden laurel crown.
“This.”
“What's wrong with it?”
“Everything.”
She stared.
Apollo sighed.
“It is ugly.”
There was a pause.
Then the costume designer laughed.
Apollo did not.
“Oh.”
She took it back.
“You're serious.”
“Painfully.”
She examined it.
“The director wanted something recognizable.”
“I understand.”
“Too much?”
“It resembles something sold in a party store.”
She winced.
Apollo immediately felt guilty.
“That was rude. I apologize.”
“No, you're right.”
She looked at the crown again.
“It kind of does.”
“We can improve it.”
“You know costume design too?”
Apollo smiled.
“A little.”
The cast became convinced within two weeks that Apollo was the greatest method actor alive.
He knew every myth.
Every regional variation.
Every epithet.
Every ancient instrument.
Every pronunciation.
He knew how to wear every costume without asking.
He knew exactly how people would have moved through temples.
He corrected sacrificial procedures.
He corrected festival dates.
He corrected music.
He corrected the script's description of Delphi.
Repeatedly.
One actress finally asked:
“Did you study Classics?”
Apollo hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Apollo considered.
“Extensively.”
“That isn't a school.”
“No.”
“Did you get a degree?”
“Several.”
She laughed.
Apollo did not.
Her laughter slowly stopped.
“Wait.”
Apollo smiled.
She walked away.
Daniel confronted him after Apollo corrected an ancient hymn for the fourth time.
They were on set.
The music director had just played a reconstruction.
Apollo had winced.
The music director had noticed.
“What?”
Apollo tried.
He genuinely tried.
“Nothing.”
Percy would have been proud.
Then the music director played it again.
Apollo physically recoiled.
Daniel looked over.
“Apollo.”
Apollo sighed.
“The rhythm is wrong.”
The music director stared.
“According to what?”
Apollo froze.
Three people turned toward him.
He chose his words carefully.
“The surviving material suggests—”
“No, it doesn't.”
Apollo looked at the music director.
The man pointed at the score.
“We're already using the scholarly reconstruction.”
Apollo looked at it.
“It is wrong.”
“Based on?”
Apollo opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Daniel folded his arms.
Apollo looked around.
There were twelve people nearby.
All watching.
Apollo sighed.
He walked over to the instrument.
“May I?”
The musician handed it over.
Apollo adjusted his grip.
Then played.
The room went quiet.
The melody changed under his fingers.
Small differences at first.
Then entire phrases transformed.
The surviving fragment became something complete.
Natural.
Old.
Not reconstructed.
Remembered.
Apollo finished.
Nobody spoke.
The music director stared.
Daniel stared.
Apollo slowly handed the instrument back.
The music director said:
“Where did you get that?”
Apollo smiled.
“Excellent question.”
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
Apollo knew that expression.
It was remarkably similar to Percy's you've done something stupid face.
Daniel pointed toward his office.
“You. Me. Now.”
Apollo sighed.
Daniel closed the office door.
Apollo sat.
Daniel did not.
“What the hell was that?”
Apollo blinked.
“Music.”
“I know it was music.”
Apollo folded his hands.
Daniel paced.
“You just played a complete version of a fragment that historians have been reconstructing for decades.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you learn it?”
Apollo hesitated.
Daniel stopped pacing.
“You keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Knowing things.”
Apollo smiled weakly.
“I know many things.”
“No. Weird things.”
“That is subjective.”
“You told the choreographer a dance movement was wrong because, and I quote, ‘we didn't do it like that.’”
Apollo closed his eyes.
He had forgotten about that.
Daniel continued.
“You've corrected temple layouts.”
“Yes.”
“Music.”
“Yes.”
“Poetry.”
“Yes.”
“Ancient pronunciation.”
“Yes.”
“You knew a hymn nobody else knew.”
Apollo nodded.
Daniel stared.
Then suddenly laughed.
Apollo opened his eyes.
Daniel sat down.
“All right.”
“All right?”
“I get it.”
Apollo became suspicious.
Daniel smiled.
“You're doing a bit.”
Apollo blinked.
“A bit.”
“The whole Apollo thing.”
“What whole Apollo thing?”
Daniel gestured at him.
“Your name is Apollo. You're playing Apollo. So you've decided to just become Apollo.”
Apollo stared.
Daniel looked delighted.
“This is some insane method-acting commitment.”
Apollo said nothing.
“It explains everything.”
“It does not.”
“Sure it does.”
“Daniel.”
“You learned ancient music.”
“I knew ancient music.”
“Exactly.”
“No.”
Daniel paused.
Apollo took a breath.
Perhaps Percy had been right.
Perhaps he should leave this alone.
He could simply let Daniel believe it.
He could finish the film.
He could behave like a normal actor.
He could—
Daniel said:
“Honestly, man, I respect the commitment, but you don't have to keep the bit going when it's just us.”
Apollo's pride immediately destroyed the reasonable option.
“It is not a bit.”
Daniel smiled.
Apollo said:
“I am Apollo.”
Daniel waited.
Apollo waited.
Daniel's smile widened.
“The singer.”
“The god.”
Daniel laughed.
Apollo sighed.
Daniel laughed harder.
Apollo leaned back.
This was humiliating.
“Oh, come on,” Daniel said.
“I am entirely serious.”
“That actually makes it funnier.”
“Daniel.”
The director wiped his eyes.
“You're telling me you're actually the Greek god Apollo.”
“Yes.”
“Son of Zeus.”
“Yes.”
“Sun god.”
“Among other domains.”
“Music.”
“Yes.”
“Prophecy.”
“Yes.”
“Medicine.”
“Yes.”
“Archery.”
“Yes.”
Daniel stared.
Apollo stared back.
Then Daniel started laughing again.
Apollo pulled out his phone.
Daniel managed:
“What are you doing?”
“Texting my husband.”
“Why?”
Apollo typed.
Apollo: He does not believe me.
Percy's response arrived almost instantly.
Percy: YOU TOLD HIM???
Apollo typed:
Apollo: Circumstances required honesty.
Three dots.
Percy: You lasted 17 days.
Apollo frowned.
Apollo: That is over two weeks.
Percy: Incredible restraint.
Apollo put the phone down.
Daniel was watching.
“Your husband know you're a god too?”
Apollo gave him a look.
“Yes.”
Daniel laughed.
Apollo had reached his limit.
“You wish proof.”
That stopped him.
Daniel blinked.
“What?”
“You do not believe me.”
“Obviously.”
“So.”
Apollo stood.
Daniel looked suddenly uncertain.
“Apollo.”
“You requested proof.”
“I didn't request anything.”
“You laughed.”
“That isn't legally the same thing.”
Apollo considered.
“Would you like proof?”
Daniel stared.
Then smiled.
“Sure.”
Apollo smiled back.
That should have worried him.
Daniel leaned against the desk.
“Prove you're Apollo.”
Apollo removed his sunglasses.
The room brightened.
Daniel's smile vanished.
Apollo allowed the glamour to drop.
Not entirely.
He liked the building.
There was no need to incinerate furniture.
But enough.
Golden light spilled outward.
Not artificial light.
Not LEDs.
Not reflected sunlight.
The warm radiance of noon filled a windowless office.
Apollo's eyes burned gold.
A faint wreath of light formed around his hair.
Daniel backed into the desk.
Apollo raised one hand.
A small sphere of sunlight appeared above his palm.
Daniel stared at it.
Apollo said:
“Would you prefer music?”
No response.
“Prophecy?”
Daniel made a noise.
Apollo frowned.
“Archery would require us to go outside.”
Daniel pointed at him.
“You're glowing.”
“Yes.”
“You're actually glowing.”
“Yes.”
“People can't do that.”
Apollo smiled.
“Correct.”
Daniel stared for another several seconds.
Then:
“Oh my God.”
Apollo tilted his head.
“Well.”
Daniel's eyes widened.
“Don't.”
Apollo laughed.
“I said nothing.”
Daniel walked around the desk.
Then around Apollo.
Apollo tolerated this.
Daniel waved one hand through the sunlight.
It remained.
“You're actually—”
“Yes.”
“Apollo.”
“Yes.”
“The Apollo.”
Apollo sighed.
“Everyone says it like that.”
Daniel sat down.
Hard.
Apollo let the light fade.
Daniel stared at the floor.
Then at Apollo.
Then at the script.
Then at Apollo.
“Oh, no.”
Apollo blinked.
“What?”
Daniel picked up the script.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
Daniel flipped through pages with increasing horror.
“You read this.”
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
“Yes.”
“And you're Apollo.”
“We have established this.”
Daniel stopped at a page.
“Daphne.”
Apollo winced.
“Yes.”
Daniel flipped again.
“Hyacinthus.”
Apollo's expression softened.
“Yes.”
Another page.
“Marsyas.”
Apollo sighed.
“Yes.”
Daniel looked physically ill.
“We wrote your biography.”
Apollo considered.
“In the loosest possible sense.”
Daniel put the script down.
“I told you your character motivation was unclear.”
Apollo smiled.
“You did.”
Daniel covered his face.
Apollo began to enjoy himself.
“You also told me I needed to ‘connect more deeply with Apollo’s emotional reality.’”
Daniel groaned.
“And I believe your exact phrase was ‘don't play him like you know what happens next.’”
Daniel made a louder groan.
Apollo was delighted now.
“I did know what happened next.”
“Please stop.”
“You gave me notes on being myself.”
“I didn't know!”
“I thought they were quite insightful.”
Daniel lowered his hands.
“You're making fun of me.”
“A little.”
Daniel stared.
Then started laughing.
Apollo blinked.
It was not the earlier laughter.
Not disbelief.
Just absurdity.
Daniel leaned back.
“I gave Apollo acting notes on Apollo.”
“Yes.”
“I told the god of music his rhythm was too perfect.”
“You did.”
Daniel laughed harder.
Apollo smiled.
“I respected the note.”
“That somehow makes this worse.”
The next problem was obvious.
“Does everyone else know?”
“No.”
Daniel stared.
“Nobody?”
“My husband.”
“Obviously.”
“My family.”
“Obviously.”
“Several communities.”
Daniel stared.
Apollo clarified:
“The mortal public does not.”
Daniel looked toward the door.
“So my entire crew thinks you're just a singer.”
“And actor.”
“And you're actually a god.”
“Yes.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“Am I supposed to sign an NDA with Olympus?”
Apollo laughed.
“No.”
“Does Zeus have lawyers?”
Apollo's smile vanished.
“Do not give him ideas.”
Daniel stared.
Apollo was completely serious.
“Okay.”
Daniel stood.
“I need coffee.”
“A sensible response.”
He reached the door.
Then stopped.
Slowly turned around.
“Wait.”
Apollo knew that expression.
“What?”
Daniel's eyes widened.
“Medicine?”
Apollo sighed.
“Yes.”
“You're actually the god of medicine too.”
“One of them.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Yes.”
Daniel stared.
Apollo added:
“Licensed.”
Daniel's mouth fell open.
“Currently?”
“Yes.”
“How many specialties?”
Apollo hesitated.
Daniel pointed.
“No.”
Apollo smiled.
Daniel opened the door.
“I don't want to know.”
“Probably wise.”
They walked back toward set.
Daniel stopped again.
Apollo sighed.
“What now?”
“The archery scene.”
Apollo smiled.
Daniel looked horrified.
“We hired an archery consultant.”
“Excellent.”
“You don't need one.”
“Oh, I still intend to listen.”
Daniel stared.
Apollo shrugged.
“Modern coaching techniques evolve.”
Daniel just kept walking.
Daniel kept the secret.
For six days.
Not because he told anyone.
Because he became terrible at pretending Apollo was normal.
During a rehearsal, the costume designer asked:
“Does this look historically plausible?”
Before Apollo could answer, Daniel shouted:
“ASK HIM.”
Everyone stared.
Daniel froze.
Apollo closed his eyes.
The costume designer looked between them.
“Why?”
Daniel smiled too widely.
“He likes history.”
Apollo whispered:
“Subtle.”
Daniel whispered back:
“I am trying.”
Another day, Apollo caught an arrow during rehearsal because someone mishandled a prop bow.
Nobody was in danger.
Apollo simply reached out.
Caught it.
Looked at the arrow.
Then realized twenty people were staring.
Daniel shouted:
“LUCK.”
Apollo stared at him.
Daniel continued:
“Very lucky.”
The archery consultant looked suspicious.
Apollo handed back the arrow.
Percy, when told later, laughed for approximately five minutes.
Percy finally visited set near the end of production.
Apollo had been waiting for this.
Daniel had not.
Percy walked onto set in jeans and a blue hoodie, visitor badge clipped crookedly to the front.
Apollo saw him immediately.
His entire face changed.
Daniel noticed.
“So that's Percy.”
Apollo looked at him.
“You know who my husband is.”
“I know. I've just never met him.”
Percy reached them.
“Hey.”
Apollo kissed his cheek.
“You came.”
“Had the afternoon free.”
Daniel held out his hand.
“Daniel Hart.”
“Percy Jackson.”
They shook.
Daniel stared at Percy for half a second longer than normal.
Percy noticed.
“What?”
Daniel looked at Apollo.
Apollo smiled.
Percy groaned.
“He told you.”
Daniel laughed.
“He proved it.”
Percy closed his eyes.
“Of course he did.”
Apollo looked offended.
“He requested proof.”
Daniel said:
“I kind of did.”
Percy looked between them.
“What did you do?”
“Minimal divine radiance.”
Percy stared.
“Apollo.”
“It was controlled.”
“Apollo.”
“No property damage occurred.”
Daniel said:
“That is true.”
Percy looked at him.
“Do not encourage him.”
“I've learned that.”
Apollo folded his arms.
“This alliance is concerning.”
Daniel hesitated.
Then looked at Percy.
“So…”
Percy immediately said:
“No.”
Daniel blinked.
“I didn't ask yet.”
“You were going to ask if I'm also—”
Percy gestured vaguely.
“—mythology.”
Daniel stared.
Percy sighed.
“Yes.”
Daniel's eyes widened.
Apollo smiled.
Daniel looked at Percy.
“Who?”
Percy looked at Apollo.
Apollo looked delighted.
Percy looked back.
“It's complicated.”
Daniel pointed.
“No. I survived him. You owe me.”
Percy sighed.
“Poseidon.”
Daniel went completely still.
Apollo watched with pleasure.
Daniel said:
“Your father is Poseidon.”
“Yes.”
“And you're married to Apollo.”
“Yes.”
Daniel stared.
Percy nodded.
Daniel looked at Apollo.
Then Percy.
Then back.
“Isn't Poseidon your uncle?”
Apollo smiled.
Percy said:
“Do not.”
Daniel froze.
Apollo immediately became fascinated by the ceiling.
Percy pointed at him.
“Do not explain the family tree.”
“I said nothing.”
Daniel looked alarmed.
“There’s more?”
Percy grabbed Apollo's arm.
“We're going to lunch.”
Daniel called after them:
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”
Percy kept walking.
Apollo called back:
“Family knot!”
Percy groaned.
Daniel stood alone on set.
“What does FAMILY KNOT mean?”
Nobody answered.
The film premiered eleven months later.
The public still did not know.
Daniel did.
Percy did.
A handful of people had become suspicious.
But the secret held.
Mostly because whenever someone suggested Apollo might actually be Apollo, the idea sounded too ridiculous to take seriously.
Reviews praised his performance.
One critic called it:
An uncanny portrayal that suggests Apollo has spent his entire life studying the god.
Percy framed that one.
Apollo objected.
Percy framed it anyway.
Another wrote:
At times, Apollo seems less like an actor interpreting a mythological figure and more like a man personally offended by centuries of inaccurate retellings.
Apollo considered that reviewer extremely perceptive.
Daniel texted him the night the review appeared.
Daniel: They have no idea.
Apollo replied:
Apollo: Their instincts are impressive.
Daniel: You realize when this comes out someday I am going to look insane.
Apollo: You cast Apollo as Apollo.
Daniel: I KNOW.
A minute later:
Daniel: I still can't believe you auditioned.
Apollo smiled.
Percy was beside him on the couch.
“What?”
Apollo showed him.
Percy read the messages.
Then looked at Apollo.
“You know what my favorite part is?”
Apollo smiled.
“My award-worthy performance?”
“No.”
“My historical contributions?”
“No.”
“My restraint in preserving my identity for nearly three weeks?”
Percy laughed.
“Seventeen days.”
Apollo frowned.
“Stop emphasizing that.”
Percy leaned against him.
“My favorite part is that you told the director you were Apollo…”
Apollo waited.
“…and he laughed in your face.”
Apollo gasped.
Percy was already laughing.
“That was deeply disrespectful.”
“You deserved it.”
“I told the truth.”
“You also told him you had ‘a little’ acting experience.”
Apollo paused.
“That was true.”
“You've been performing since antiquity.”
“A little is a relative term.”
Percy laughed harder.
Apollo glared at him for approximately three seconds before smiling too.
Then Percy's phone buzzed.
He looked at it.
His eyebrows rose.
“What?”
Percy turned the screen.
A headline.
APOLLO WINS BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR FOR PLAYING APOLLO
Underneath it, the top comment read:
Dude was born for this role.
Percy looked at Apollo.
Apollo looked at Percy.
Silence.
Then Percy completely lost it.
Apollo tried to maintain his dignity.
He failed.
Because, really—
They had no idea.