Ship of Theseus, a percy jackson and the olympians fanfic

When Theseus returned after killing the Minotaur, the Athenians conserved his ship in his honor. For hundreds of years, every time a plank grew old, it was replaced. In the end every single part of the ship had been replaced. Many philosophers had then wondered. Was it still Theseus' ship, When nothing of the original remained?

Apollo drew his bow and fired. The Cyclops was only a few miles ahead, sitting on the toilet. Saying that it was an easy target was an understatement. Before, pinning a fly by his wing at a distance of 200 miles without looking had been a piece of cake.

He missed

***
Later, he would find himself thinking back to that moment far too often for his liking. It made him feel sick. It might seem like he was overreacting, it was just one missed shot. Since then, he had succeeded at harder shots. Still, he kept coming back to it and every time it felt more and more enraging. He was the god of archery! He had invented it! He had kept silent about it. He knew the others wouldn't understand. They would call him over dramatic and laugh about it.

They were things mortals simply didn't understand about the nature of gods. Their domains were not simply their jobs. It was not something they took care the day and when the evening came, went back home and forget about it until the next morning. This was a part of who they were for every single second of their immortal lives. Gods were the embodiment, the amalgamation of their various domains. Apollo was not simply the god of archery, he was archery, like he was the sun, music, poetry, healing and plagues. Not a single arrow was fired without his knowledge. The feeling of the string in his hand was as familiar to him as breathing for a mortal. The whistle of an arrow was like music for his ears.

And now he couldn't even touch an easy target. This was like Demeter forgetting how to mold a field or Poseidon how to swim. It felt like he had lost a part of himself. Worst: his skills were deteriorating. A few months ago, even if he could not be able to do a hundredth of what he could do eyes-closed when he was still a god, he had still been correct. But now, he felt like a beginner that just had his first lesson. And he couldn't stop wondering: what if it continued? What if the same thing happened with his other domains? Prophecy- for obvious reasons- was already completely gone. Due to his lack of power (except on rare occasions) he had no access to the Sun, magic Healing, or Truth. And his failing memory rendered Knowledge useless. The only things he had left were his knowledge in medicine, and music, as well as his incredible talent for poetry, his haiku as beautiful as ever.

But what if he woke up one day to find that he couldn't remember how to nock an arrow or play the lyre. What if he find himself unable to read a partition, disinfect a wound or perform CPR?
Maybe one day he will wake up having lost everything that made who he was.

After all, his body was definitely not his

It was a prison made of flesh, so confining that he felt like he was going to suffocate in it. It was slow and awkward, far too tight. The sensations were strange; much too strong and weak at the same time. Before, he could see everything under the Sun, hear anyone pronouncing his name, wherever they were. He could feel every music note. Now his senses were diminished beyond measure, and yet, it was overwhelming: too hot, too cold, too loud, too quiet. He felt like a young god receiving his first prayer and still hadn't managed to cut them off all.

And his look!
He had exaggerated. He wasn't ugly per se. It wasn't the problem. The problem was that he simply didn't look like that. Now people are gonna say: But Apollo, you're a god, you can change looks at will! You have no real appearance! First, this is wrong, he has his True Form. Second, even if he had taken many different human appearances over the millennia, he had chosed it. Harmonious features and long blond hair, slim figure and perhaps more importantly, he always looked like his mother and sister. It was not immediately obvious, but the similarities were there, in the shape of the nose and the features of his face. When he went out with them, to one of their festivals or to a concert or just for an ice cream or something like that, people would immediately call them family.
But that wasn't the case anymore. They didn't look alike. Or he thought so. He didn't remember exactly.
Because his memory, the last thing he had left, was failing him. Apollo had always remembered everything. Gods had a memory far beyond mortal, and Apollo, as the god of knowledge, had a one far beyond them, only surpassed by Mnemosyne. In fact, he had never forgotten anything in his life. And now, even remembering the faces of his mother and sister was hard. He couldn't remember the laughter of Hyacinthus either, or the way Troy shone under the light of the sun. He had forgotten the color of Troilus' eyes and the smile of Asclepius when he had just miraculously saved another patient (the face of Commodus, drowning in his bathtub silencing mouthing You blessed me, on the other hand, was burned into his mind like a hot iron). Perhaps he would forget more. Perhaps he would forget even their names, perhaps it had already happened and he hadn't even realized it. Perhaps one day he would meet his sister in the street and not even recognize her. That thought was even more frightening than the prospect of never getting his mortality back.

Now he wondered, stripped of his domains and his body, his memory failing him, losing everything that composed him who he was, was he still him? Like Theseus' ship, was he still Apollo, when nothing of the original remained?