Archive of Our Own ^beta

Crch.. crch.. crch..

Apollo's fingers twitched at his sides. He couldn't find the strength to do much more than that; even opening his eyes felt too impossible of a task.

Crch.. crch.. crch..

He was so cold. He supposed, in a sense, that such a sensation had become his new normal, but still. This was beyond the harsh winds of a storm, or of the whipping sensation of snow against his neck. His entire body was doused in cold, his clothes wet against his skin in places not yet numbed by hypothermia.

Crch.. crch.. crch..

Pain bloomed along his body freely as his mind tried to regain its grasp on reality. Everything hurt. Aches and sores he'd never had the displeasure of knowing prior to now kissed along his spine and tore at his muscles. Warm liquid - blood, he guessed. His own, most likely - ran down from his temples and nose, crusting around his dry lips and bruised chin.

Crch.. crch.. crch..

His wings, useless as he was certain they were by now, were the worst. Broken feathers and snapped bones lay pinned beneath him, jostled with each movement his body took. He felt more like 'Icarus' than 'Apollo'. Was this how the boy had felt, trying to reach him with his wax wings, when he'd hit the sea upon his fall? 

Crch.. crch.. crch..

No, no he had seen Icarus' face as he had fallen. As he'd reached for him, desperate to help even as he only made the boy's fate progress faster.

Crch.. crch.. crch..

Icarus had been smiling up at him as he fell. Fell faster, faster, too fast for Apollo to grasp his wrist and pull him back into the sky. Into his arms, anywhere that would keep him safe. 

Crch.. crch.. crch..

Icarus had been smiling so wide as he hit the waves. Apollo hoped he had died on impact, so he hadn't felt the flaring of his burns or the chill of the salt water. Apollo hoped he had broken his neck when he landed, and went painlessly.

Crch.. crch.. crch..

He was nothing like Icarus. He felt the pain. He felt his useless wings give out on him in the air. He felt the moment the ground came up to meet him. He felt his injuries, and he felt the cold of the snow. He was nothing like Icarus, because Apollo was not smiling. 

Crch.. crch.. crch..

He was nothing like Icarus, because somebody was dragging his broken body through the snow.

With far too much effort for such a simple task, Apollo opened his eyes. The white void of the stormy sky greeted him painfully, a searing brightness that scratched against his aching skull, tempting him to shut his eyes again.

It would be so easy to do so; to slip back into that half-asleep state, and slowly fade away, step into whatever remained of the Underworld. But he wanted to see their face. He wanted to see his rescuer. He wanted to know who was expending so much of their time and of their effort to try to save him.

He, who was to blame. He, who had caused all of this. How could he have been so stupid? Everything was his fault. He should have been the only one who di

He pushed those thoughts away.

He wondered who it could be, trying to rescue him. 

Ethan had been taken from them unjustly long ago. And Lukas.. Apollo didn't want to think about him. He was gone; that was all there was to say.

He was positive that nobody aside from their little 'team' had survived Ragnarök, so...

So that left Frisk, or Jei.

His heart clenched in his chest. They hadn't had time to make a second rocket, with The Storm approaching, and he doubted the two of them could have fit in just one. They'd been separated because of him.

He wondered which of them had escaped. They'd both been so protective of one another; it was hard to imagine either of them allowing the other to die. He wanted to try and look up, and catch a glimpse of their face, but his exhaustion pulled insistently at his battered body. His eyes rolled back as Hypnos claimed him once more.

Crch.. crch..

Crch.. crch..

Crch.. crch..

He was warm, when he woke from his dreamless sleep. Heat flickered across his skin indecisively, jumping forward at one moment and pulling back the next.

Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. A blurry campfire greeted his eyes, surrounded by a grey much darker than the stormy sky he'd stared uselessly up at in his previous fit of consciousness. There was no snow around him. His clothes were dry. His fingers twitched beneath the fur that had been thrown over him. With a delay that would have been concerning, were it not the end of the world, Apollo raised his arms over the fur, and stared down at them.

His fingers were almost black, slight traces of blue trickling down the knuckles of his fist. Blisters settled along them, and Apollo was certain they'd be uncomfortable, if he could feel his hands at all. Hypothermia. If the world weren't ending around him, he'd likely be worried about losing his hands entirely. Of course, he was going to die, anyway, so what did it matter, now?

His arms - what he could see beneath his tattered sleeves - were littered in fresh wounds from his fight with The Storm. They were red and ugly, not quite scars yet, but not bleeding anymore either. He was sure that, if he lifted his shirt, he'd see much the same there, between mottled bruises of purple and green. Apollo found himself thankful he couldn't move; no risk of jostling his undoubtedly broken ribs or pressing against bruises he couldn't see.

His wings were spread out at their full wingspan on either side of him, bloody and unaligned with less feathers than he'd ever seen them with. He furrowed his brow, grunting with effort as he tried to move them. The motion that normally came so easily to him fell short, a mere twitch that sent painful sparks up his spine the closest he could get to results. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, allowing himself to melt into the warmth that the fire provided as tears pricked at his eyes. He wasn't going to cry; he refused to. It was his own fault. He'd chosen to kill Odin, and he'd chosen to fight The Storm despite knowing he'd lose. These were just.. the consequences of those choices.

(It did little to soothe the growing lump in his throat or dissuade the sob building in his chest. He was so proud of his wings, and now they were ruined. How could he be the sun if he couldn't touch the sky?)

Someone cleared their throat, and Apollo jumped nearly out of his skin. He hadn't even realised he wasn't alone.

He looked up, and felt dread creep up his chest like frost. Frisk stared back, glaring down at his blue hands.

Apollo wasn't sure which would have been worse; seeing Jei and knowing the man had no idea that everything was his fault, or seeing Frisk and knowing that they did know.

"Jei is gone." Frisk said bluntly, crossing their arms over their chest as they looked out to the storm beyond the cave's entrance. 

Apollo lowered his head.

"I know."

He could hear the leather of their gloves creak, and he was sure that, if he looked up, he'd see their fingers curled into fists. He was too ashamed to check.

"Everyone is gone."

"I.. I know."

Apollo raised his head at last and looked into Frisk's eyes, and felt something resonate in his chest at the pain and fear he found there. 

He'd met his second Icarus. His first had suffered the consequences of his mistakes. The second would not have to live that same fate any longer.

"Hey," he croaked, and Frisk met his gaze at last, "come here."

His bones creaked in protest as he raised his arm, pulling the fur over his lap aside to make room for them at his side.

Frisk hesitated, glancing between the cave entrance and Apollo's side, like they couldn't decide which was a worse fate. That was okay. Apollo wasn't sure which was worse, either.

"I... I can't forgive you." Frisk said as firmly as their shaking voice would allow.

Apollo gave a sad little smile, "I wouldn't want you to."

"Not yet." Frisk continued, like they hadn't heard him. Apollo's chest tightened. "I can't forgive you yet. When we get out of here... When we catch up with Jei, maybe then. Maybe then you can earn my forgiveness."

Apollo swallowed, throat dry all of a sudden, but nodded.

"Yeah. I'll make it up to you." He promised, biting back bile at the lie.

"Okay." Frisk nodded. "Okay.."

They stepped closer to him slowly, as though they were reconsidering, before sliding into place next to him and rearranging the fur to cover the both of them. Their shoulder pressed against his, and he bit his cheek to push the stinging sensation that it brought to the back of his mind.

Frisk yawned, and Apollo dared to glance down at them.

They looked so small and exhausted up close, skin pale and cheeks sallow without their mask. Their eyebags were worse than his own, somehow. Guilt weighed heavy on his shoulders. They were just a kid, really. He'd never asked how old they were, only knowing that they were older than Jei.

A child, condemned to a slow and painful death, with only their executioner for comfort. That was the reality of their situation. He was to blame for their death, when it inevitably came.

With stuttering movements, he raised his left wing and wrapped it around Frisk's shoulders. He grit his teeth through the pain, pulling Frisk closer so their head rested on his shoulder. Dry blood flaked off onto their clothes, but it hardly mattered. Nothing mattered.

"You can sleep," he said once he was sure his voice wouldn't break. 

"If I fall asleep.." Frisk trailed off, finding their voice again after a moment. "If I fall asleep, you'll be gone when I wake up."

Apollo snorted despite himself, "I appreciate your confidence in me, but I couldn't stand even if The Storm was right outside."

Frisk went quiet, and Apollo sobered. 

"I won't die." He assured, "I won't leave you alone. It's.. It's the least I can do, right?"

Frisk hummed vaguely, sleep already pulling at them.

"For what it's worth, I.. think we could've been friends if things were different." Apollo admitted. "I'd have liked to be friends with you."

They buried their face against his shirt, "We were already friends.."

With that, their breathing evened out. Apollo took a deep breath of his own, trying to push the tears in his eyes back. 

"Yeah. We were, weren't we?" He breathed, tilting his head back against the stone.

He stared at the ceiling, face carefully blank.

Ragnarök had taken its toll on him. There was a reason he'd not used his wings outside of his final stand; he was weak. The end of all days had all but zapped his powers. Even his minimal access to them as a child had been greater than what he currently had.

But...

But Apollo was still a god. He was a son of Zeus, and-

And there was one thing he could do. One power he'd hated since the day he'd discovered it. One that had, stubbornly, remained throughout it all.

He was a god of music, of civilisation, of light and, most importantly, of healing. And so too was he a god of plague. Of pestilence and death.

One touch was all it would take. Just his finger against a person's forehead would be enough. He could make it slow and agonising, like the plagues he had unleashed upon innocent mortals. Or, he could make it quick, and merciful.

And warm.

There was no sun anymore. Apollo had been hesitant to use his gifts, with no sun to replenish them. But... Well, it was all over now, wasn't it? He had no need to save his powers for a rainy day; this was the rainy day. 

A soft glow (dimmer than he was used to) settled beneath his skin, and warmth eased out from beneath it. It was uncomfortable against his injuries, but he didn't care. If he was going to do this, he wanted Frisk to be as comfortable as possible.

"Goodnight, Frisk." He mumbled into the top of their head as the rise and fall of their chest gradually slowed.

He closed his eyes, a bone-deep exhaustion meeting with the pain gnawing at his decaying body. His death would not be quick. His death would not be warm, or bright.

But that was okay.

Apollo closed his eyes. He held Frisk's body tight to his side. He breathed slowly. The wind picked up.

He would be gone by the morning.