Chapter 2: Divine Descent
Apollo’s first breath in the mortal world tasted of blood and pine sap.
He lay half-curled at the rotten foot of a felled tree, skin stung raw by brambles and the relentless drizzle that passed, in this green nowhere, for rain.
The ground was not unlike the underworld’s banks, it was clinging, rank, alive with unseen movement, but Apollo had never in memory known a chill to worm so deep into his bones.
’Is this how far I’ve fallen?’
He tried to rise, but his arms buckled beneath a body suddenly heavier and more susceptible to pain than any he’d carried before.
Each cold-soaked fiber screamed against the motion. Something he suspected was a rib, shifted inside him like an accusation.
He waited for the divine warmth to rise, to cauterize the wound, to burn away the damp. Nothing came. Only the indifferent patter of rain through tapestry-green leaves and the shrill complaint of a jay somewhere overhead.
It was not until this moment that Apollo understood, truly, the completeness of his exile.
’I really have fallen too far now.’