the burning maze spoilers. originally written 10/13/22, edited 08/27/24
If there was one thing the Gods will never truly understand, it was sacrifice.
They sat on their thrones in Olympus, literally looking down at the world they'd ruined below them. They saw the ugly, the beautiful; they watched the world progress while staying the same. Whatever promises or oaths they made were told from a liar's lips and only as reliable as the Gods themselves – they didn't need to worry about keeping their word when they had an eternity to make it better. They were woven with the cruel hands of the fates, molded from selfishness, and didn't care who they hurt, as long as their egos weren't bruised in the process.
For beings supposedly all-power and omnipotent, they actually don't know a lot of why mortals acted the way they did. They'd never understand what it was like to have a countdown hanging over your head, ticking down to the last day of your life, the knowledge that the time you have with others, and yourself, was limited. They didn't have to worry about simple things like enjoying the company of others or giving up one thing to have another, things that mortals had to think about daily. In a lot of ways, humans were stronger than the Gods – they were used to impermanence, relied on the unstable, and built their lives upon a foundation that would crumble with the wrong move.
There was something purely human about sacrifice. About being willing to die for the ones you love, exchanging one life in return for another.
To Apollo, sacrifice was both familiar and foreign. As a God, it didn't mean as much as it does for mortals, or for heroes. He knew it in the smell that lifted from Camp Half-Blood's fires, whisperings of offerings clinging to it. He was accustomed to sacrifices being made to him, to watching mortals give up the last pieces of themselves in hopes that he might lend an ear. Apollo sacrificed in little, necessary ways; he existed in the light of the sun, dancing away with dawn and dusk. His immortal presence is marked by how he's caused hurt, an endless, broken trail of heartbreak that followed him from Delos to Olympus. He'd never feel the intensity humans did, and because of that, he was cruel when in love. Gods had to be distant, what with running the universe and all. They always had one foot out the door.
These sacrifices were nothing compared to the ultimate act Jason had performed.
/
( "I like you better before," Ares snarled, probably trying to get a rise out of him.
Apollo smiled thinly. He would never understand.
"I did too.")
/
Despite inclining to pretend otherwise, Apollo was no exception. He spent the last few months struggling harder than he ever had – he experienced empty, stomach-scraping hunger, faced raw grief and pain so visceral it was physical, and lived so hard it hurt. He didn't understand how humans did it and still kept faith. Still kept love. He's finding that being human is less about anything other than feeling.
Apollo had watched Jason face his final battle – a moment etched in his memory with the clarity of the sun's brilliance. He hadn't known he would die like he might've as a God. It felt like a curse – the one time Apollo would give up being immortal for a glimpse into the future, and he couldn't even make the trade. He could imagine the rest of them on Olympus, just watching, only observing in their immortal detachment, never fully comprehending. The Gods saw the bravery but struggled to grasp the cost involved.
None of them had talked about it. Zeus – or Jupiter, whoever – hadn't spoken about it since it happened. He punished Apollo with a silence worse than blame would've been. He wished he would at least pretend to care; he knew his father was anything but fatherly, but that didn't make the outright coldness any easier to stomach. Zeus "saw to" whoever dared whisper Jason's name in the halls, or brought up him up in post-War conversations, or even uttered in passing, which ultimately ceased all talk or thoughts of him. It was as if Jason Grace had never existed.
The only place that had any trace of him was the camps.
Apollo hadn't visited, worried he wouldn't be welcome, undeserving of stepping into the place in shambles because of him, but he'd watched. He'd seen Camp Jupiter in shambles afterward. For a system so intricately designed, it fell apart almost immediately after the news was spread. Apollo couldn't help but wonder: if Jason Grace was not the son of Zeus, would they try so hard to honor him? If his own face wasn't in his brother's, would it have mattered what his legacy was?
The foundation crumbled now that its support wasn't there; there were waves of outrage, and grief as if it affected the city itself. The inside was hit the hardest – Hazel, Frank, Reyna… having to see everyone deal with it was hard enough. It was unfair of Apollo to force one more person to learn of his death through second-hand sources. Not when he could offer better.
/
(Remember what it's like to be human.)
/
He couldn't stop hearing Jason Grace's last words spoken, quietly, reverently, in the moment before he died – before he lost himself completely. Like a secret or an oath, something to hold Apollo to since he was a God and wouldn't do it himself. It felt like self-directed bitterness burning in his throat when he acknowledged the unfair irony.
He'd kept his word so far, but if there was one thing he was good at it was proving that he was worse than he thought. Artemis had told him he'd come back better ("less like a man", were her words), but what was the weight of another God's word? He wanted to be better, someone who would do his damnedest to hold onto this and not let it go, but he'd only find out if he was by waiting on time.
Apollo had never been patient. He didn't even consider the word a part of his vocabulary – the world spun on his time, after all – but he'd learned the hard way that sometimes the world didn't revolve around him (12 hours a day, to be precise).
Losing Lee and Michael in the Titan War was like losing a limb, but it put into perspective how shitty he'd been. Other children that fought and died, nameless on the street alone, young kids stabbed, left for dead, bleeding out in alleyways where ambrosia and nectar weren't available, hundreds of miles from a safe haven they didn't know existed, those deaths never meant as much to him before. He had so many children, what were a few more? It wasn't until he saw it face-to-face that he grasped how young sixteen is until he tried to match himself with the face in the mirror, until he watched Piper McLean and Leo Valdez get ripped apart by the same Oracle that dictated their lives – the Oracle that he created – and breakdown over the loss of their friend, family until he realized he couldn't anybody but himself that he realized just how truly awful it all was.
Demigods weren't expected to live past twenty, and Jason Grace was sixteen when he died. It was longer than most demigods got, yet Apollo couldn't shake the feeling that something terribly wrong had happened.
Being human meant being real. It meant feeling. It meant putting himself aside and taking responsibility for his actions. Even if he didn't want to.
/
("You've been so quiet lately, brother,"
"Nothing feels worth saying,")
/
The God of the sun stood where there was no sun, feet planted at the bottom of an apartment building he'd been at not too long ago, the way the steps croaked underfoot became almost familiar. The building was older and dingy, with cracks running along the ivy that climbed up the wall, a stark contrast to the gold-edged buildings on Olympus. He still remembered where to go, after all these months.
Apollo didn't know why he was here, of all places. Other people had respects that deserved to be paid. Still, it felt right, somehow.
Percy Jackson might've been the first demigod that made Apollo see how wrong the Gods are. He owed a lot of people and Gods a lot of things but aside from Artemis, he might just owe Percy Jackson the most. All the Gods did, really; they'd put him on a pedestal too high to reach, put him through more than any demigod, forced him to be the greatest hero of his generation, despite only ever wanting the opposite. He'd declined the only gift the Gods had ever given him in favor of being the one thing the Gods tried so hard to avoid. He was owed more than he got.
The least Apollo could do was break the news of Jason's death in person. Everything in him was telling him to turn around before it was too late, and if that didn't prove his cowardice, he didn't know what did. But he knew he had to. He wouldn't have a chance to make it right otherwise.
It was storming, because of course, because when Apollo had told Zeus he was going down to tell Percy Jackson his friend had died, he'd huffed and puffed and blew the house down and threw a tantrum. It wasn't often that Zeus got physical since he was all-powerful and could do things like take Apollo's divinity for months instead, but he'd – dramatically (and he wondered where Apollo got it from) – backhanded him and forbade him. So he went anyway. He couldn't imagine how pissed he was when he realized where Apollo was.
Thunder cracked across the sky in beautiful terror and Apollo swallowed down the uneasiness in his throat.
He stepped onto the landing of the Jackson-Blofist apartment, procrastination and hesitation barely out of reach. The clouds overhead darkened with what was no doubt a reaction to Apollo's audience, and the rain slanted harder – he could say something poetic about how tragically ironic it all is, but he didn't have the energy.
/
(Not that it would ever be right.)
/
He rang the doorbell and stepped back, rocking on his heels. He heard the bzz bzz that always followed, and then Percy's voice, rough and familiar like it'd been all the way back in January. All the way back in January. He couldn't believe how slow everything had gone. He felt like he'd aged a millennial since then – and only grew half that.
Not even a second later, Percy answered hesitantly over the intercom system.
"Yes?"
"Percy, it's –," Lester, he almost said, "Apollo,"
"Apollo? Again?"
The irritated voice got cut off, and there was a pause in which Apollo increasingly felt like he was not welcome here and the need to explain himself arose, so he added, "I'm not here to send you on a question or, uh, anything. I just… We should talk,"
There was another pause, a sigh, and quiet muttering before Percy said, "Don't come up, I'll come to you."
Apollo was selfishly glad – his ugly cowardly head was rearing and the less time he was here, the better.
He didn't have to wait very long, and in the time it took for Apollo to mentally berate himself and replay all the things he could've done better, Percy's usually easy gait came slinking down the stairs uncertainly. His eyes focused on the brewing storm as if he already knew what Apollo would say. He probably did. He was probably used to conversations like this. Apollo thought this was what it felt like to drown.
Percy awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and nodded a little in Apollo's direction, "So… what brings you here?"
He sounded... tired. Exhausted. Aged. He didn't even sound angry anymore. Just like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Again.
Apollo clenched his shaking hands at his sides. He was not allowed to be the one with a racing heart and trembling fingers. He was not allowed to be the one struggling with grief. He hadn't cared about Jason Grace. He hadn't even known he existed until after the First Titan War. He was the last person allowed to be the one mourning.
"Do you wanna, maybe, sit down? You might – I mean, it might be easier… that way." He said, voice weak and wincing at his own words.
Apollo felt an acute sense of inadequacy. Why should he be allowed to be here? Why did he get to stand here, an immortal being, telling someone of a death he could've prevented? He was a god, unempathetic and detached, admitting to him the death of a friend, a task he felt ill-equipped to handle. He'd never done this before, and as perceptive as he is, he was sure Percy saw right through him. He was fumbling, butchering his one possibility at redemption. He didn't know what the right etiquette was, if there was any, if he, a God, being here after it was too late, trying to grasp some sort of connection he could use to absolve his own guilt, was even helping. Maybe it would've been better for him to find out from his friends.
Jason Grace was never coming back. Jason Grace was never coming back and it was up to Apollo to tell Percy, whether he deserved to be here or not. Whether his thoughts before releasing the news were if he kills me, I can't even blame him or not.
Percy stiffened and frowned, eyeing him wearily, "I think I'm good. What's wrong? Why are you here?"
Because I got your friend killed.
Apollo nearly flinched. He couldn't say that – wouldn't, wouldn't remind Percy of how he'd come to him months ago before all this, and Percy had turned Apollo down. He never would've if he'd known how it would end, but that didn't change the fact that Jason wasn't there because of it. He didn't want to give Percy another thing to blame himself for, another list of failures in the form of his friend's dead names.
He took a deep breath and started from the beginning.
Apollo told Percy about Caligula and the Triumvirate, about the past few months as a mortal – got to the yachts, and started stuttering over his words, faulty despite the graceful song he'd managed not too long ago – how Meg and Jason were trapped in the venti, how Jason told them to go, how he… - he didn't say he was killed or murdered because as true as they are, those words are harsh, and he can't bring himself to reconcile what he saw with the ending of a sixteen-year-old boy's life. Sacrifice meant nothing if this was the cost.
He didn't tell Percy about the promise; it feels too sacred.
"He… He sacrificed himself for us,"
He expected a larger reaction from him, yelling or shouting or maybe even tears – Apollo wanted him to, thought it was the least he deserved – but he was silent through it all. When he was finished, he let Percy decide how to proceed. Percy didn't say anything, which was somehow worse than anything else he could've done. His jaw was locked and his shoulders were tense. He stared at the balcony, where the old wood dropped and a gate sat precariously. He didn't answer for so long, Apollo debated leaving.
"No," He muttered, so quiet Apollo didn't think he meant to say it aloud, then, spitting it out like venom, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I told you as soon as I could. Father only just returned my immortality, I would've come sooner, but…," Zeus was mad. As usual, "Camp Jupiter already knows,"
Percy nodded, though the gesture was barely more than a twitch of his head. Apollo suddenly realized how strange it was that nobody had thought to tell him yet. A lot of the senate members were friends with him. Apollo supposed they'd been busy with funeral rites and passing on Jason's legacy. There was a lot left behind.
He wondered if he should put a reassuring hand on his shoulder or reach out in some way, but Apollo knew that would only make it worse. There was no comfort with this. It just was.
"Why?" Percy finally asked, his voice catching, "Why does this happen, Apollo?"
"Because you're heroes," Apollo said, almost automatically, and it sounded fake even to him.
Percy let out a self-deprecating laugh, "Oh, yeah, right," If he'd sounded tired before, it was nothing to how he sounded now.
The clouds were growing darker above them, the wind picking up from playful to dangerous and Apollo wasn't sure it was Zeus' doing anymore. The storm arrived with a vengeance as if the heavens themselves mourned. But that couldn't be, because Zeus would never.
"What does it mean to be a hero, then, Apollo? What makes someone a hero if it leads to this?"
Apollo didn't know; what was a hero? And who decided who got to be one? A few months ago, he might've delved into attributes that made a hero – helping others, being kind, putting others above oneself, blah, blah – and while those were all part of it, they weren't the answer. At a hero's core, there was something that made them inherently different. Good, without having to try. Most half-mortal children of the Gods were deemed heroes for merrily existed, but that wasn't entirely accurate. Camp Half-Blood didn't make heroes, because heroes couldn't be made – they crafted child soldiers who found comfort in violence. It was the only option they had. None of them asked for it and most didn't want it. He knew Percy Jackson would gladly trade the gold in his blood and whatever his divinity was worth for the chance at a peaceful life. He knows Jason Grace would've.
It wasn't fair that the only thing they wanted, deserved, really, considering all the shit they had to go through, was the only thing they couldn't have. Demigods' lives were doomed from the beginning, like Gods' were, except infinitely more tragic.
Apollo struggled to find a response, "I don't know," he repeated, because it was all he knew, "Being a hero... It's not something you can define. You, Jason, and others like you — you were forced into the role, and it isn't fair. It isn't right. I just can't believe it took me this long to figure it out,"
And he hadn't even – Percy had. He'd pointed it out and forced the Olympians to acknowledge their wrongdoings in a way no one dared before. If he wasn't Perseus Jackson , he would've been killed a long time ago. Nobody would admit it out loud, but he was exactly what they needed. And yet, they did nothing but fail him over and over again.
Another note on his own ignorance, he supposed. He'd use his innate nature of being a God as a scapegoat for why he was the way he was – and it definitely didn't help, because becoming mortal had taught him plenty – but Hestia and Artemis proved he could be good if he tried. He'd like to say that he's changed, but the reason he's changed is because of what Jason gave up so he could be here, and he'd been alive for more than long enough for him to know it was too late to undo what he'd done, and acknowledging it wasn't enough to make it right.
"Jason figured it out," Percy whispered, gaze hardening.
Apollo swallowed a rock. He didn't have anything to say that. There was nothing to say to that.
Percy's eyes shifted to the storm outside, and he didn't speak again. He looked like Poseidon in this angle, but not only in the obvious ways – there was something ancient about him, like he'd been crafted from the first ocean to touch the land, like the raw, primordial force of the sea itself, like he'd weathered storms of raging waters and barely made it to shore.
Apollo looked back at the sky and listened to the thunder rolling across the city. It hit the concrete fifty feet below them and buildings surrounded at an angle, soaking in everything. Hundreds of people below them went about their lives, their day possibly ruined as umbrellas were desperately pulled out as if they could do anything against the wind. The rain reminded Apollo sickeningly, inexplicably, of blood.
Percy looked back for a moment, silently. He nodded slightly, eyes red-rimmed, water tracking down his face as water or rain, he couldn't tell. Apollo didn't know why he didn't will himself dry, but maybe he couldn't find it in him to care. Before he could say anything else, he walked back into his apartment, without so much as a goodbye.
Apollo was left standing in the rain.