"Ah, my love, I could never tire of hearing you hum."
Apollo sighed, gazing with adoration at her golden eyes. His tall, sturdy frame—standing 6'3" and weighing 164 pounds of perfectly sculpted muscle—leaned casually against a hidden marble temple pillar. His golden-blonde hair shimmered in the afternoon sunlight—light he himself commanded, as if the radiance were an extension of his own restless soul.
Watching Athanasia was a joy he cherished above all else. He had never offered thanks to any god but himself, yet if a deity had brought Athanasia to him, he would gladly build them a temple to show his gratitude.
"The melody escaping those lips..." he murmured, a smile playing on his mouth as he rested his chin in his hand. His long, skilled fingers—accustomed to plucking his golden lyre until all of Olympus danced—now yearned only to touch something far more delicate.
Athanasia stood by a stream in the sacred woods near the foot of Mount Olympus. She was small—only 5'3"—with a slender, frame that appeared fragile yet possessed an innate grace. Her platinum hair cascaded to her waist, shimmering like a fallen full moon and swaying gently in the breeze. Her clear emerald eyes were fixed on the wildflowers she gathered as she hummed. Her voice was pure—like the wind whispering through the leaves—and held a beauty that even the Muses envied.
She did not know.
She had no idea that the God of Light himself had been watching her for months.
It mattered not whether Athanasia came to him as a god, a goddess, a mortal, a nymph, or even a centaur. Their souls were intertwined, and he would always be drawn to her. “Too captivating for anyone but me to hear,” Apollo added, his eyes tracing every curve and contour as if painting Athanasia’s image in his mind. The sunlight he radiated gently brushed against her skin, making her glow without her even realizing it.
Athanasia was his inspiration—the reason he was something more than just another god on Mount Olympus. She set him apart, making him more than merely the Sun God; in her eyes, being with Athanasia meant transcending any title ever bestowed upon him.
"How I longed to feel those lips pressed against mine, rather than watching them move without me..."
That night, Apollo could bear it no longer. He descended from his hiding place, taking on a human form that still radiated a faint golden aura. His blonde hair shimmered, though he dimmed its glow so as not to startle Athanasia.
The girl sat beneath an ancient olive tree, plucking the strings of a simple lyre she had fashioned herself from wood and a broken bowstring. Her voice was softer this time, singing a melody about light—lost, then found again.
Apollo approached with a light step. "Forgive me if I intrude," he said, his voice deep and warm, like the morning sun greeting the earth.
Athanasia started, her emerald eyes widening. "Who...?" She rose; her small frame seemed even more diminutive before the tall, sturdy figure standing over her. Yet, strangely, she felt no fear. A peculiar warmth washed over her, as if her entire body were being caressed by gentle light.
"I am... a traveling musician," Apollo lied, wearing his signature cheerful smile. His golden eyes gazed directly into hers. "My name is... Phoebus. I heard your voice from afar. It was beautiful. May I listen from a little closer?"
Athanasia blushed, a rosy hue spreading across her smooth cheeks. "Phoebus... like the god's name?" she asked innocently, unaware of just how close she was to the truth.
Apollo laughed softly—a sound that could make the birds sing. "Perhaps I do resemble him. But tonight, I am merely a man captivated by a voice."
They talked late into the night. Apollo spoke of music, of archery, and of how light could both heal and burn. Athanasia listened with sparkling eyes, occasionally singing along when the stranger borrowed her lyre and played it with extraordinary skill. Every note flowing from her fingers made Athanasia’s heart race.
But jealousy stirred within Apollo the next day when he saw a village youth approach Athanasia, bearing a bouquet of flowers and praising her voice. From high above the clouds, Apollo gripped his bow tightly. His golden arrow was poised to fly, yet he held back. *She is mine,* he murmured to himself. *Even if she doesn't know it yet.*
A few days later, a massive storm struck—a tempest born of Apollo’s uncontrollable rage upon seeing Athanasia nearly fall into a swollen river. He descended once more, this time making no effort to conceal his full power. A blinding radiance filled the forest as he caught Athanasia’s small form in his strong embrace.
"Uh You..." Athanasia whispered, drenched, her platinum hair clinging to her beautiful face. "You are no ordinary mortal."
Apollo gazed deeply into her eyes, his large hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "I am Apollo. The Sun God. And I have loved you since the moment I first heard your melody."
Athanasia replied, her voice steady despite the emotion welling up within her; her emerald eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I... I felt your presence. Always. A warm light that followed me everywhere. Was that... you?"
Apollo’s smile softened into something tender. He leaned down, pressing a passionate kiss to Athanasia’s lips—gentle at first, then deepening as she responded, her small hands clutching his tunic. His tall, powerful frame arched protectively over her petite form, as if the world itself might crumble, yet he would not allow a single harm to touch her.
That night, in the hidden temple Apollo had created solely for the two of them, the sunlight never faded. Athanasia lay in Apollo’s lap, her platinum hair fanned across the god’s broad chest. Apollo’s fingers traced the curves of her body with reverence, as if playing the most sacred of melodies.
"You are my inspiration," Apollo whispered against her ear between kisses. "This world is too dark without you. Even my sun pales when you do not smile."
Athanasia smiled shyly, her hand touching Apollo’s strong, handsome face. "And you... are my light. I never knew I was being wooed by a god so... perfect."
Apollo’s jealousy would flare up again in the future—whenever other gods took note of Athanasia’s beauty, or when mere mortals swooned in her presence. Yet, whenever that happened, Apollo would pull Athanasia into his embrace, reminding her through searing kisses and tight holds that their souls had been bound together from the very beginning.
They danced beneath the light of both moon and sun, singing in harmony until Olympus itself echoed with their song, healing the wounds in each other's hearts. Athanasia, who once did not know he was watching, has now become the queen in the heart of the brightest God.
And Apollo, who was once merely the Sun God, has now found a true reason to shine: for the sake of his Athanasia.
