I AM BACK! Sorry for the wait, everyone. I was quite busy recently, with two summer camps in a row and a whole month's separation from my computer. This story is very cheesy, and a bit exaggerated, but please read before judging. Read and review, everyone! I don't own Percy Jackson, nor any characters or the plotline, cuz I'm 1) Not male, and 2) Not a genius called Rick Riordan.
Apollo was always the happy, lighthearted god that thrived on annoying his twin sister to no ends. He radiated pure positivity, and he was always the one that brought ease and brightness into the room when Olympus was shrouded in the dark folds of war and tragedy. He was arrogant, cocky, and a troublemaker - and proud of all these labels. He was the lighthearted, jovial one, but the gods knew that Apollo wasn't always that cheery. Namely when someone or something messed with his sister. His baby sister. He knew they were twins, and he knew that Artemis was older (he will never admit it to her), but he was her brother. An overprotective one. NOBODY, mortal or not, messes with Artemis and gets away with it. Suffice to say, Apollo wasn't pleased when Atlas took Artemis.
Apollo's reaction to the event was predictable, but that didn't make his fury and guilt any less terrible. He knew something bad was going to happen to her. He told her to go to Camp Half-Blood, told her to never hunt alone on the dark days of Kronos' rise. Of course, she heeded the first piece of advice; even Apollo's sister knew to take what the God of Prophecies said about the future seriously. However, she refused - adamantly - to refrain from hunting alone. Apollo remembered her reaction clearly (how could he not?); she had shouted insults at him, occasionally letting loose an arrow or two. But Apollo should have made sure that she was safe. He should have. And the fact that he didn't tore him apart, like every time he let Artemis fall into danger when he should have, could have stopped it. Deep down though, Apollo knew different. Prophecies are inevitable, and attempts to try to change them would be always end in vain.
Apollo was shattered and depressed, and in a state that the other gods and goddesses either have never seen before, or dreaded seeing. The once talkative god had become silent and distant. Even the sun seemed to dim, and continuously so ever since the news of Artemis' capture reached the ears of Apollo. He only felt pain. Guilt. Anguish. Self-hatred. And, of course, fury. Fury and anger, and the itch to tear Atlas and Kronos apart, limb by limb, bone by bone. He would raze whatever Mount that Artemis was kept in to the ground. He was on the verge of breaking the sacred laws, until the demigods and Hunters met him and he offered his help. In the days of Artemis' absence, Apollo shut himself up. Instead of pranking and making mischief, he spent his time lamenting his sorrows by singing, and reciting poems, ballads, or Shakespeare. At night, he would drift into a restless sleep, only to wake up from nightmares of Artemis crumbling under the weight of the sky. She would cry for help, but Apollo could never reach her in time.
When Artemis returned, battered and bruised, grief-stricken and exhausted, but safe, Apollo was very relieved. He wrapped her in a gigantic hug, and for once she did not argue. She just sighed and settled against her brother, slowly drifting away to Morpheus' realm. Apollo just whispered in her ear gently, "It's nice to have you back, Arty."
End.