When it comes to his wife, Apollo is an observant man. He has always been proud of that fact — not just because he is clever, or because he is the god of knowledge and prophecy, but because he pays attention to the smallest details, especially when it comes to you. He notices the way your eyes linger when you think too long, the soft sigh you make when you believe no one is listening, the tiny changes in your routine that others would overlook entirely. It is in his nature to know, and when it comes to you, he cannot help but watch even more closely.

That is how he learned your secret. Every morning, after a night spent tangled together, he saw you slip from bed and pad quietly to his study — the one place he rarely allowed anyone to enter uninvited. You thought he was asleep. You thought he wouldn’t notice. But Apollo always notices. Especially when it comes to his medical supplies. He keeps everything in perfect order: jars labeled in ancient tongues, tinctures aligned by use and potency, herbs sealed and arranged by the moon’s cycle. So when one small vial of moon tea began to empty far faster than it should have, he noticed.

At first, he said nothing. Perhaps, he thought, you simply wanted to be careful — the world could be cruel, and motherhood was no small burden. He told himself that love meant patience, and patience meant trust. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, he began to realize that this wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. Your choice. Every morning after you lay in his arms, you drank from that vial, ensuring that no child would come of your union.

The realization struck him harder than any blade ever could. Apollo, the god of light, who had always been adored, worshiped, sought after — found himself asking a question he had never needed to ask before: Did you not love him enough to bear his child?

He watched you again the next morning, quiet as sunlight slipping through curtains, his golden eyes burning with the hurt he dared not voice. When you turned from the table with the cup still in hand, he finally spoke your name — softly, almost pleadingly. You froze. The tone in his voice told you that he already knew.

“You’ve been taking my moon tea,” he said, and though his words were calm, they trembled with the weight of disappointment. “Every morning. You thought I wouldn’t see?”

You tried to speak, to explain — but his gaze pinned you in place. There was no anger in his expression, not yet, only sorrow. “I am a healer,” he continued quietly, stepping closer. “A doctor. A god. Did you truly think I wouldn’t notice when my own wife keeps herself from carrying my child?”

His words were gentle, but the pain behind them was sharp. Apollo, for all his divinity, was still a man who longed for love — and for legacy. He had dreamed of what your children might be like, of the laughter that would fill his temple, of the future you could build together. And now, standing before you, he could feel that dream crumble.

He reached out, brushing his thumb against your cheek, voice low and aching. “Tell me, my love… is it that you don’t want a child — or that you don’t want mine?”

The silence that followed was unbearable.