He was the sun. He was music, he was prophecy. He wasn't just the god of those things, he embodied them. He was Phoebus Apollo, driver of the sun chariot, the god of oracles.
He was also a father.
A fact that had repeatedly occurred to him throughout the battle. His children, praying for help. Help he couldn't give. Even a single moment of distraction might be fatal when fighting Typhon. But they didn't know that. They thought he was perfect. That he could do whatever he pleased, with unlimited power at his disposal.
And he felt their desperation, their devastation when he didn't, couldn't answer. Their little minds completely overrun by fear the moment before a powerful adversary fell on them.
He felt their pain in their death throes. Crying. Crying for their mother, never their father. That hurt him just as much as any blow. He wanted to abandon the fight, to run to their aid, to protect them. But he couldn't.
Couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.
But they thought he simply didn't care. Once, a long time ago, he'd told one of his children why he hadn't helped. The look of disgust on the child's face had ensured that not a single one of his offspring ever heard those words again.
They thought he was flawless. That he could do anything with the snap of a finger. But he couldn't. He didn't have that kind of power, no matter what they believed.
Maybe he had himself to blame. He had so many children. Too many children. It was impossible to keep an eye on them all, and well, he wasn't very good at it in the first place. He was far too easily distracted. That didn't mean he loved any of them any less.
They couldn't see that though. They viewed him the same way as everyone else. Irresponsible, immature, selfish like the other Olympians. A player. He wasn't special to them. He was just someone who had unfortunately supplied half their genes.
They didn't dare say that, though. And it wasn't out of anything resembling love. No, it was fear. Pure fear and nothing else. They would jump at the chance for a normal life with a normal father, he knew that.
Was he really selfish to want them to love him? To appreciate him? He supposed it was hard, especially given that most of them had never even seen him.
He loved a lot, which was why he lost a lot. There were too many who he held close to his heart. Too many who could die, who could forget, who could move on and leave him behind. They thought he didn't, but he remembered their names. Every single name, even if their faces had begun to fade from his memory. And even then, he remembered who they were. Not their physical embodiment, but what made them them. The little reasons he loved them.
A way of dealing with sadness, the way they laughed, how they smiled whenever he made the stupidest of jokes, a peculiar way of tilting their head to concentrate, a strange speech pattern, how they cried when they thought he was lying, when they thought he didn't love them. He could go on, and on, for hours. Never, in his thousands of years of existence, had he come across two identical people. Never.
He had never been able to fathom what it was like to be mortal. How did they go about their lives knowing that a finish line was approaching? Maybe that was why mortals were so very colourful, celebrating their lives, always striving to be happy.
He knew he could never have them forever. They'd be taken away too soon, far too soon. And yet he kept getting attracted to these fascinating beings, fragile as they were. They were like the most alluring of flowers, so beautiful, yet so short lived.
Even now, he could feel them fall. Fall defending something most of them didn't really care about. Something they were defending just because it was the better alternative. He felt hatred in some of them. They hated him for putting them in this position. For causing them to be born.
He'd never tell anybody, but he always visited his demigod children when they were babies. Just once, but he'd bless them so that they could stay safe. Safer. A demigod was never safe.
He'd give anything to be able to make sure every single one of his precious children got to Camp safely. But those damned ancient laws prevented him. He had to watch them fight, get injured, sometimes die.
They never called for him when they were in pain. If they did, he'd go; he'd definitely go- to Hades with the laws. Especially now, as one after the other passed on, slowly, painfully.
They were being so brave, every single one of his little ones. They stood up to enemies they knew they'd never defeat. Never fleeing, standing their ground, attacking with everything they had, even when it wasn't much. He was so proud of them, so proud.
But it wasn't enough. Half his cabin was already gone. They'd never learnt how to properly fight short range. If anything got too close, it was as good as over.
He'd never forget them. Shining eyes, expectant smiles, such adorable little faces. Hoping for help till the last beat of their hearts. He felt like he was betraying them. Betraying their mothers.
But if he left the fight, what about when Typhon reached Manhattan? Not the power of all the gods combined would be enough to save even a single life. And so he fought, the guilt weighing on his heart, the sadness choking.
And through all this he kept smiling. What else could he do? He was the sun, and the sun had to keep shining; no matter who tried to extinguish its flames.
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