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As Kronos fell before his children, he left them with a final gift.
The line of patricide would end with them. They would never need to fear being overthrown by their own children—for their children would be born vulnerable, and die by the very power of their parents before they could ever become a threat.
The Olympians would come to know the curse as truth. Yet even a curse forged by Time cannot remain unchanged by its effects.
For each child, the curse’s hold is strongest in youth, loosening only if they survive long enough to grow into their power. But reaching that point is rare. Most do not live long enough for the curse to fade.
Even now, protecting young godlings is no simple task, and many still do not survive despite their parents’ desperate efforts.
But Fate is not without its interruptions.
From another world, demigods arrive to this Broken Pantheon—
into the arms of parents who would do anything to keep them safe.
-
Apollo was the firstborn son of the king of the gods—the just and mighty sky king, Lord Zeus—and his queen, Lady Hera, who was Apollo’s mother in all ways that mattered, despite him not being of her womb.
Apollo was not the oldest of the second generation—his elder sister Athena (Artemis didn’t count; she was his twin) held that title—but he was older than most, and he had been there for nearly all of the births since his healing and medicine domains settled. He had seen the successful ones.
And, far more often, the tragic.
He had been there to check over crying babes of all shapes and forms while worried parents hovered nearby, praying to Khaos itself that this time would be different—that this time the curse would not sink its claws into their vulnerable children.
Again and again, Apollo had turned to them with sorrow in his eyes and told them the same thing:
No.
This one was not an exception.
And he could not say whether the child would survive long enough for the curse to loosen its grip.
The curse was always strongest in youth—tight, merciless, all-consuming—its hold only weakening with time, a process that took centuries, centuries most of the godlings didn’t have.
As the god of healing, his family turned to him, and from the very beginning, Apollo answered every call.
He rushed to their sides without hesitation—to mend Kymopoleia’s broken bones. To ease his siblings’ straining lungs when breathing became laboured. He tried to stem the bleeding of Ares’ babes, hands glowing as he fought against wounds that refused to close.
And yet—
Yet so often did Apollo fail that some days he wondered if the domain of healing would not be better suited to another.
Apollo had failed everyone.
His brothers. His sisters. His cousins. His nieces and nephews.
And worst of all—
Every one of his own children.
They were born burned.
Babes with skin charred, blistered—sometimes flesh already peeling away in fragile, ruined layers as Apollo scrambled to save them, to knit them back together before they could fall apart entirely.
Other times—
They were born perfect.
And that was worse.
A faint sunburn at most— to him, nothing. Something Apollo could wipe away as easily as breathing, leaving behind perfectly whole children: plump cheeks, bright and curious eyes watching, as tiny hands reached for him.
Alive.
Healthy.
For a moment.
For an hour.
For a day, if the universe was feeling particularly cruel.
Then came the sickness.
Their tiny bodies trembled violently, wracked by fevers that burned and froze them all at once. Their breaths turned shallow, uneven. Their cries weakened into pitiful whimpers until even those faded, stolen along with their strength.
Sometimes there was a cause—a draft, a bump, a shift too small to notice, yet Apollo did anyway.
Sometimes there wasn’t a cause at all.
Sometimes everything was perfect.
And they still died.
Apollo’s children were the most likely to survive to birth out of all the members of his family.
And yet, despite that—
Not one had ever reached adulthood.
Not one.
Only names remained.
Names, faces, and fleeting personalities—memories Apollo could not let go of, no matter how much it hurt to keep them.
He remembered the stubborn pouts.
The bright, sunny smiles.
The soft, musical croons.
The laughter that had barely had time to exist.
Glimpses of what they might have become.
Mockeries of a future they would never have.
Sometimes—
Sometimes he wished they had died in the womb like so many of his siblings’ children.
At least then he would have been spared the knowing, the glimpses of what he could not have and could not protect.
That was the true cruelty of the Crooked One’s curse.
Not just that it took their children—
But how.
It twisted their parents’ very domains against them.
Aphrodite’s children were most often stillborn, their bodies malformed, hearts that never beat, beauty turned grotesque before it could ever live.
Ares’ children killed their mortal mothers in the act of being born and forced their way into the world too early— if they survived that, their own bodies betrayed them, splitting open in violent, bleeding gashes that resisted healing.
Hermes’ children made no sound. Not a cry, not a breath beyond a faint, whispering wheeze—as if language itself had been stolen from them before it could form. They did not move. Not even enough to swallow. They starved in silence, their bodies giving out while Hermes begged them to live.
Poseidon’s children were fragile things—bones brittle as glass, lungs so delicate that the smallest grain of sand or mote of dust could make them bleed, leaving them to drown in their own blood.
Zeus’ children struggled for breath from the moment they entered the world, tiny mouths opening again and again for air that struggled to enter, their bodies spasming as though struck by lightning from within.
Some survived birth.
Some did not.
Some stubbornly clung to life for a time.
But nearly all were lost…
-
It was Apollo’s fate that his own children would die by the very things he governed.
By the arrows in his quiver.
By the plagues and ailments that bent so easily to his will—until they didn’t.
Their bodies failed again and again beneath his hands as he rushed to save them, pouring power into fragile forms that could not hold it, burning through himself in desperate attempts to keep them alive—only to arrive too late, or not be enough, or to falter for just a moment too long.
There had been a few.
A scarce, precious few who had lingered.
Weeks.
Months.
Once—
Years.
Asclepius had lived nearly six.
Six years.
An eternity.
A miracle.
Those years had been among the brightest of Apollo’s immortal life.
He remembered them in fragments so vivid they almost hurt.
Small hands clutching at the cloth of his robes.
Soft laughter echoes through sunlit halls.
The way Asclepius would press close to his side, warm and alive and his.
Apollo had raised him.
Fed him. Held him. Sung to him.
Watched him grow.
Loved him.
It had been everything Apollo had ever wanted—everything he had been denied, finally placed gently into his hands.
A dream made real.
Apollo had been so certain—so utterly, foolishly certain—that this time would be different.
That he had finally learned enough, grown enough, suffered enough to earn this.
That this child—
This one—
Would live.
The end had not come in battle.
Not in a catastrophe.
Not even in anything worthy of the grief that followed.
It had come from something so small that Apollo had nearly missed it.
A cut.
Apollo hadn’t even seen it happen.
He noticed it later, in passing, when Pan, still young by godly standards, somewhere early in his third century, had bounded forward asking if he could hold the baby.
Hermes had immediately stepped in, gently stopping his son, already fussing—explaining that Asclepius was too young, too fragile, before switching streams, asking Pan if he had eaten, if his muscles ached again, if he had overexerted himself.
It had been normal.
Routine.
Safe.
And then Apollo had seen it.
A tiny break in the skin.
So small it was almost nothing.
A pinprick.
The sort of thing that wouldn’t even register on a mortal human child.
Apollo had healed it instantly.
Effortless.
Reflexive.
He had checked Asclepius over afterward—of course he had—hands glowing, senses sweeping carefully for anything he might have missed.
There had been nothing.
Nothing wrong.
Nothing at all.
-
The infection still came.
It started where the skin had been broken.
Invisible at first.
Then spreading.
Into the blood.
Through the body.
Fast.
Too fast.
Apollo had felt it when it was already too late.
He had tried—
Gods, he had tried.
He poured everything he had into stopping it, slowing it, burning it out before it could take hold.
But it didn’t stop.
It didn’t listen.
It tore through Asclepius’ body like wildfire beneath the skin, turning warmth into fever, breath into ragged gasps, small hands clawing weakly at nothing.
(He had been in so much pain.)
Apollo had held him through it.
Held him as his body failed.
As his cries fragmented apart into thin, broken sounds.
As the life he had fought so hard to protect slipped through his fingers anyway.
When it was over—
There was nothing left to save.
Only a name.
Carved into memory and a tombstone.
A star to gaze upon in remembrance, so Apollo would never, ever lose him entirely.
The mortal world had felt Apollo’s grief.
Drought scorched the land.
Plague swept through villages without mercy.
Lives were taken indiscriminately—
And yet, always—
Always—
The children were spared.
Apollo could not bring himself to touch them.
Not like that.
Never like that.
The mortals should have been grateful.
Some wise few were.
He knew that.
They whispered prayers of thanks when their young survived.
But Apollo—
Apollo would have given anything to trade places.
To be the one burning.
The one breaking.
The one dying—
If it meant his son would have lived.
That could not happen again.
It would not.
Apollo would not allow it.
It had been centuries since one of his children had survived more than a handful of hours.
Longer still since one had lived long enough to laugh, to speak, to be known.
And it felt like an eternity since Asclepius had been taken from him.
Now—
Now he held something impossible.
A child.
A real, living, breathing son.
No burns.
No sickness.
No sign—not even a whisper—of the curse.
Just—
Perfection.
His perfect little boy.
And that—
That terrified him.
Because Apollo knew better than anyone that health meant nothing.
Not in the beginning.
Not when the curse could still reach.
Especially not when there was still mortality clinging to the edges of his godling’s being, fragile and uncertain, waiting to be burned away—or to consume its host entirely.
Will was healthy now.
So had Asclepius been.
For a time.
Apollo could not trust that it would last.
He could not trust that the sickness would not come later, quiet and unseen.
He could not trust that the curse would not find a way to take this child from him as well.
He could not—
He would not—
Lose another.
So he did what he had always done.
He took control of what he could.
Apollo let the grief wash over him for a moment—acknowledged it, allowed it space—
And then set it aside.
Because grief did not save children.
Grief did not stop the curse.
Grief did nothing but weaken the hands that needed to be steady.
He focused on the present.
On what he could control.
On the child in his arms.
Apollo resolved, with quiet, unshakable certainty, that he would protect Will from everything.
From the world.
From chance.
From the smallest misstep.
From the unseen dangers that had taken so many children before him.
And even—
If necessary—
From himself.
-
-
Apollo could scarcely look away from his little light.
Will slept soundly in his arms, small and warm and alive, his breathing soft and even against Apollo’s chest.
Safe.
Finally safe.
And Apollo would keep it that way.
His siblings had always called him overprotective.
Fussy.
Overbearing, even, when it came to his younger brothers and sisters.
They had no idea what that truly meant.
They hadn’t seen anything yet.
Apollo adjusted his hold without thinking—one hand supporting Will’s back, the other cradling his head, shifting him just slightly as the boy stirred. The movement was instinctive, seamless, guided as much by habit as by intent.
Will settled immediately.
Apollo stilled, watching closely.
Waiting.
Measuring.
Breathe steady. No hitch.
Skin warm—no, not too warm.
Limbs relaxed, but not limp.
Good.
Good.
Only then did Apollo allow himself to relax a little and enjoy the feeling of Will snuggling close, a sleepy little smile on his adorable face.
He would not be leaving Will’s side.
Not for decades.
Not for centuries.
Not until Will was grown—truly grown, established in his divinity, strong enough that the curse could no longer touch him.
And even then—
Apollo’s grip tightened, just slightly.
Even then, he was not certain he would be able to let go, at least not fully.
The memory of Kore’s death lingered like a wound that had never properly healed.
Fresh.
Ever-present.
Impossible to ignore.
After she had died, Apollo’s father had locked down Olympus.
Completely.
No one left.
No one wandered.
No one was permitted out of sight for longer than a moment before being searched for desperately by the king of the gods.
Apollo could still remember it clearly—the way his father had gathered them all, pulling gods thousands of years old into his side as though they were newborns once more.
Holding them close.
Watching them.
Counting them.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His sister Artemis had been scruffed more than once for trying to slip away, indignant and restless as always, only to be pulled back and held in place despite her protests.
They had all chafed under it.
Complained.
Rolled their eyes.
Endured long lectures about how they would always be their father’s children—how age meant nothing in the face of loss.
How they would always be small to him.
Vulnerable.
Precious.
At the time, it had felt excessive.
Smothering.
Unnecessary.
Now—
Apollo understood.
Because their discomfort—however justified it had felt then—had been nothing.
Nothing compared to losing a child.
Aunt Demeter had never recovered.
Not truly.
Her domains, once so vibrant, so full of life and joy, had become something bittersweet—fields and flowers that whispered of what had been lost.
Of the daughter who had once run laughing through them.
Even now, she could only endure it for a few months at a time before retreating from the world above, withdrawing into the Underworld where Uncle Hades sheltered her.
Winter, the mortals called it.
A season of absence.
Of grief.
No one blamed her.
How could they?
Kore had been—
Apollo closed his eyes briefly, the memory rising unbidden.
Bright.
Joyful.
Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with being.
She had been just over seven hundred.
Still a child.
But past the most dangerous years.
Past the fragile first five centuries, where the curse held strongest.
Apollo had felt it himself—the way its grip had been loosening, thinning, retreating with each passing decade.
He had told Aunt Demeter as much.
Shared in her relief, in her joy that the child he had watched grow would not be lost.
That she was safe…
He remembered the last time he had seen her clearly, his little cousin.
A crown of fresh flowers was woven into her hair.
Green eyes bright like new dew drop covered blades of grass sparkling with the early morning light, she had smiled and turned toward her mother.
“Can I go play in the meadow?” Kore had asked, already half-turning body coiled in anticipation, excitement dancing through her voice.
Then—pausing, glancing back at Apollo, noticing his gaze in the bright coloured blooms of her hair, her grin was wide, cheerful, innocent in the way only children were—
“I’ll make you one too!”
A flower crown.
For him.
She had been so alive.
So certain.
So safe.
And then—
She hadn’t been.
Kore had never seen eight hundred.
Never had the chance to grow into her own domains fully.
Never had the time to separate herself from her mother, to become something entirely her own.
She had been the flower child—the goddess of planting, of first buds and new leaves, of renewal. Of life returning.
Of hope.
She had carried aspects of Aunt Demeter’s more serious domains as well—grain, harvest, sustenance—gifts from her mother, ensuring the mortals would honour her, tying her existence to something essential, something enduring.
She had loved it all.
Loved giving.
Loved watching things grow.
She would grant prayers for a good harvest and a bountiful season. would grow flowers along the roadside to make them “prettier”, that was just who Kore was.
And now she was gone, and those domains belonged to Aunt Demeter alone.
And every inch of them hurt.
An eternal reminder of the daughter, her only child, whom she lost.
Apollo had thought he understood his father’s fear then.
The sharp edge of it.
The possessiveness.
The way his own father had gathered them all in his palace and refused to let go.
He hadn’t.
Not really.
Because with Asclepius, the danger had always been there.
Apollo had felt the curse beneath his son’s skin, subtle but present—a quiet threat, a constant reminder that the boy could be taken at any moment.
On some level, he had known.
Prepared, even if he hadn’t wanted to be.
But Kore—
Kore had been safe.
Or she should have been.
If a child who had survived seven centuries could still be taken—
Without warning.
Without cause.
Without anything Apollo could see or stop—
Then Will—
Apollo’s grip tightened around the small, warm body in his arms.
Just slightly.
Enough to reassure himself he was still there.
Still breathing.
Still his.
Will, who showed not even the faintest trace of the curse.
Will, whose body seemed so perfectly, terrifyingly healthy.
Will— Apollo’s breath caught despite having no need for air at his age.
Will could still be taken.
Apollo could not survive that.
He knew it with a clarity that settled deep into his bones.
So he adjusted his hold again—careful, precise, ensuring Will remained comfortable even as he kept him close.
Protected.
Watched.
Safe.
No.
That would not happen.
Not again.
Not to this child.
Apollo would make sure of it.
-
Will’s eyes fluttered with growing awareness, bright as though lit from within by the midday sun. Bright even clouded by the gentle, drowsy haze Apollo had pressed over his thoughts—something meant to help, to soften the sharp edges and keep his mind from catching on things it was not yet ready to hold.
It helped.
It had to help.
Even so, Apollo felt a faint, unwelcome pang in his chest.
He knew, on some level, that Will would be confused and disoriented after his actions. That his little songbird would feel the absence of something he could not name in these early stages. That there would be distress, however muted, however softened. And there was sorrow in that—sorrow for the limitations Apollo had been forced to impose, sorrow for the grief Will carried that now sat just out of reach of full understanding.
Apollo knew that grief was real. He knew what it meant to lose, to remember, to ache.
And if there had been any way—any way at all—to spare his child from ever feeling that kind of loss, he would have taken it without hesitation.
But there hadn’t been.
And knowing that did nothing to ease the lingering sense of failure that coiled beneath his ribs.
So instead, Apollo did what he had always done.
He controlled what he could.
Will simply could not be permitted full autonomy—not yet.
Not when it had been made clear to Apollo how unsafe such an action was for Will.
When Apollo had first found him, the little one had been a mess of fear and resistance—lashing out, struggling to get away, disoriented and overwhelmed by a world he did not understand. He had twisted in Apollo’s grasp with a strength to his blow that should not have been necessary, should not have been learned. There had been bruises, shallow cuts in various stages of healing, painting Will’s skin yellow, purple and blue, a badly strained ankle causing him to limp despite the fact that he should never have been putting any weight on such an injury at all, and a small infection on his thigh that Will had stubbornly dismissed as nothing.
Nothing.
As though Will’s own pain meant so little.
As though his body was something expendable.
As though the faintly inflamed cut was of no danger when Apollo knew how little it took for everything to be lost.
As though Will were expendable.
It had been unacceptable.
Worse than that—it had been dangerous.
Will had not been safe, Apollo’s baby had not been safe. Not with the way his heart raced, pounding too fast in his chest whenever he became distressed. Not with the way he would work himself up again the moment he began to settle, caught in a cycle he did not have the tools to break. Not with the way he recoiled from Apollo’s touch, even when Apollo forced himself—forced himself—to step back, to give space, to try and build trust instead of simply taking control.
It hadn’t worked.
It wouldn’t have worked.
Not when Will had looked at him, frightened, exhausted, shaking and yet still not permitting Apollo to help, insisting it did not matter. Those words make Apollo wish to tear the world apart in anger; his son did not even seem to realize how incredibly precious he was. Did not seem to understand that Apollo would burn civilizations without a thought, would traverse Tartarus itself just to hold him close. Yet somehow Will seemed to think that his pain meant nothing, that pain was normal.
He had been so angry, not at Will, never at Will, but at the things that had worn familiar faces and twisted them into something monstrous. Those creatures that had left these children, his own child, afraid of the very hands that were meant to care for them, meant to protect them.
The impostors.
The so-called Gods of this other world, that had what Apollo and his family dreamed of, yet squandered it, neglected it, harmed it.
What kind of monster allows their own child to come to harm, let alone causes it themselves?
The bitterness sat heavy and immovable in his chest, but such burdens were up to Apollo to carry, not Will, who still had nightmares of things that his subconscious remembered even as his mind could not fully hold them anymore.
Apollo adjusted his grip again, gentler this time, more at peace with his decision as his thumb rubbed soothing circles along Will’s side.
Apollo had thought long and hard before he had made his decision, went through the options, argued against himself, but had ultimately decided as he had because even if Will had listened—even if he had behaved—he still would have needed more supervision than he would ever willingly accept, given where he had been mentally. He wanted distance. Freedom. Space to move.
Space to fall.
To trip. To stumble. To wander.
To get hurt.
Apollo had seen that look before—that restless, curious spark that spelled trouble. He had seen it in Hermes, in Dionysus, in every younger god who had ever slipped past watchful eyes in pursuit of something they wanted.
And Will… Will would have done the same.
The first chance he got.
Apollo had wanted to go slowly. He had wanted to coax, to guide, to let Will come to him in his own time.
But time was a luxury his children had never been afforded.
All it took was something small.
A misstep. A scratch. A shift in temperature.
And everything could spiral, leaving Apollo once more with nothing but a name.
Apollo would not allow that to happen again.
So he had removed the risk.
Not as punishment. Never as punishment.
Not out of anger—not even when Will had fought him, had said harsh things, desperate and afraid as he had been.
Apollo had done as he did because Apollo loved him.
Because Will was his.
Because Will was too young to understand what he was risking, and Apollo would not burden him with that fear—not when he could simply… prevent it.
It had taken preparation. Care. Thought.
Apollo had not acted carelessly.
He had adjusted Will gently, guiding his mind and body toward what they should have been—toward the instinctive state that would keep him calm, receptive, safe. A state where fear did not spiral into harm. Where he did not push his body past its limits. Where comfort wasn’t rejected so that finally Apollo could properly soothe such aches away, so that his child could just rest, could just be.
It was not a loss.
Not truly.
He had not taken Will’s mind—no, never that. He would not destroy what made his son himself. Will’s personality was still there, the foundation intact.
But he had… shifted things.
Made it harder to reach certain thoughts. Certain connections.
The grief.
The sharp, complex web of memory that tied pain to identity.
Apollo knew what it meant to hold onto grief—to carry it, to be shaped by it, to remember those who had been lost.
He would never surrender his own.
Not for relief. Not for peace.
And there was a part of him—a quiet, uncomfortable part—that knew Will might have chosen the same.
Might have wanted to remember clearly, even if it hurt.
Apollo’s jaw tightened slightly.
Will should never have had that grief to begin with.
That was the truth of it.
A child—so young, so newly formed—should not have been burdened with loss deep enough to carve into the soul. Should not have been left to navigate trauma without guidance, without protection.
Apollo had not taken something essential.
He had removed something premature.
Something that could be returned, in time, when Will was strong enough to bear it safely.
When he was older.
When he understood.
When he would not break under the weight of it.
This was not cruelty.
This was care.
It had always been care.
Will was freer this way.
Safer.
Happier.
Apollo would make sure of it.
Because Will was his.
Apollo exhaled slowly, pressing a soft kiss on Will’s hair without thought. He would not fail again.
Every breath, every shift, every subtle change—Apollo would see it.
He would not miss anything.
Will had been so frightened before. Flinching at every movement, every touch. Suspicious, guarded, resisting even the instincts that were already beginning to surface with Apollo’s gentle prompting.
He had been fighting himself.
Fighting what he was.
Apollo had only… eased that tension.
A gentle, constant pressure—like a scruff, he had explained to the others. Not control. Not force.
Just guidance.
A reminder.
A hand at the back of the neck, encouraging stillness, safety, trust.
Will was so, so young.
So fragile.
His mortality still clung to him, shaping instincts that no longer served him, blinding him to dangers he could not yet comprehend. Without this intervention, he may have been able to care for his son, yes—but not properly. Not in the way a godling required. Not in the way Apollo understood down to the core of his being.
And so Apollo would correct that.
He would protect him.
He would raise him as he should have been raised from the start.
-
“Good morning, my heart,” Apollo cooed to his little one.
Will made a soft, grumbling sound, his arms shifting slowly at his sides, movements sluggish with sleep. Apollo, who had been holding him throughout his rest, gently adjusted his grip so that Will was no longer cradled fully in his arms but instead had his head resting against Apollo’s shoulder, turned toward him.
“Did you have a good nap, little one?” Apollo asked as he rose to his feet, careful—always careful—not to jostle him.
Will made another quiet sound, softer this time, more of a hum than anything else. Apollo took it as agreement, his expression brightening immediately.
“I am so glad,” Apollo replied warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to Will’s brow, lingering for just a moment in quiet affection.
He began to move through the temple, whistling a soft, lilting tune under his breath as he went. The sound filled the space easily, light and warm, blending with the golden glow that followed in his wake. He swayed slightly as he walked, a subtle, practiced motion, and when Will gave a faint, restless fuss, Apollo added a gentle bounce to his steps, soothing him without pause.
“I know,” Apollo murmured softly, adjusting his hold just a touch so Will’s weight sat more comfortably, one hand supporting the back of his neck, the other steady at his side. “It can be confusing at first… but you’re alright. I’ve got you.”
He smoothed a hand over Will’s arm as he spoke, thumb brushing lightly back and forth—not searching, not checking in that moment, just soothing. Reassuring through touch rather than examination.
As they moved, Apollo’s gaze flicked over Will anyway—quick, practiced, instinctive. No tension in his breathing. No unusual heat. No stiffness or tremor in his limbs. Good.
Still good.
Still perfect.
Apollo let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and shifted his focus forward again.
“I think we might go on a walk in the gardens today,” he continued lightly, almost conversationally, “The hyacinths should be blooming by now, and they’re very pretty this time of year. I think you’d like them.”
Will didn’t respond beyond a faint blink, his attention drifting, but his fingers curled weakly into the fabric of Apollo’s robes, anchoring himself there.
Apollo smiled as though that were an answer enough.
Before long, a nymph approached, head bowed, offering a small cup filled with goat’s milk, nectar, and honey blended together. Apollo accepted it with a warm nod of thanks, already moving to sit.
He settled himself carefully, arranging Will so that the boy rested securely against his chest, supported but upright enough to drink. One arm remained around him, steady and firm, while the other guided the cup gently to his lips.
“There we are,” Apollo murmured encouragingly. “Slowly now… good, just like that.”
He tilted the cup with care, letting Will take small sips at his own pace, never rushing him. Each swallow earned a soft word of praise, each small effort acknowledged.
“Such a good boy,” Apollo said fondly. “You’re doing so well.”
A drop slipped at the corner of Will’s mouth, and Apollo wiped it away immediately with his thumb, gentle and unhurried. Will leaned faintly into the touch, and Apollo’s smile softened further at the response.
By the time the cup was empty, Will had settled, the earlier restlessness fading into something calmer, more pliant.
“Hm,” Apollo hummed, pleased. “That was what you needed, wasn’t it?”
Will gave a quiet little sound, his head tipping more fully against Apollo’s chest now, his body loosening as the last of his hunger faded.
Apollo adjusted again—small, constant corrections—ensuring Will was comfortable, supported, warm but not too warm.
“What do you want to do today, Will?” he asked gently, voice dipping softer again like the sun over the horizon. “Would you like to go for a walk in the garden? There’s plenty of sun, and the flowers are all waking up.”
Will blinked up at him, gaze unfocused but calm, as though the words didn’t fully land, but the tone did.
Apollo smiled anyway, brushing his fingers lightly along Will’s side—just enough to tickle.
Will gave a faint, surprised huff of air, a tiny reaction, but a reaction all the same.
“There you are,” Apollo said softly, pleased. “Still with me.”
He shifted, drawing Will a little closer in a brief, careful hug, pressing a kiss into his hair and lingering there for a moment longer than before.
Will would be safe.
He would grow—properly this time, without fear, without pain constantly nipping at his heels. He would become a wonderful god, bright and whole and alive.
And when he was older—truly older—he would understand.
He would understand why this had been necessary.
Will settled fully against him, Apollo held him close, committing the weight of him, the warmth, the quiet little breaths, all of it to memory as though it might somehow be taken if he didn’t.
“I love you, Will,” Apollo murmured, voice low and steady.
He brushed his lips once more against Will’s temple.
“Don’t worry,” He added softly, tightening his hold just slightly—not enough to restrict, just enough to reassure. “Papa will take very good care of you.”
Will leaned into him without hesitation.
And this time, Apollo let himself believe—
And that was enough.