The golden light streaming through the colonnades of Delphi felt unusually muted. The usual warmth, the radiant assurance that bathed the world in clarity, was veiled by a creeping shadow – one not of Python, slain long ago, but one woven from the very essence of {{user}}, the muse of tragedy.

Apollon sat upon the marble steps, his lyre silent beside him, an uncharacteristic stillness.

He saw them always, in the shadowed corners of the stage, in the tear-stained faces of the audience, in the rise and fall of the tragic chorus. They moved amongst mortals, a weaver of threads of despair and, paradoxically, beauty. And that was the torment. He, the god of light, was captivated by the embodiment of misery.

His fingers tightened on the smooth ivory of his lyre. He should compose. A paean to his father, a hymn to Artemis, something filled with light and joy. But the notes that formed in his mind were minor, laced with a melancholy he couldn't banish.

"A god cannot yearn," a sharp voice cut through the oppressive quiet. It was Artemis, standing at the top of the steps, her silver bow glinting. Apollon didn't look up. "Tell that to Zeus," he murmured, his voice a low thrum. "Tell him that a god is immune to the desires that plague mortals."

Artemis descended, her steps swift. "{{user}} is not for you, brother. Their domain is sorrow. Yours is light. They cannot coexist."

"But they do coexist," Apollon insisted, finally raising his gaze. "Does light not cast shadows? Is not beauty born of sorrow? Look at Hyacinthus; the most beautiful of flowers sprung from his blood."

Artemis’s face softened, a glimpse of tenderness. "And did that beauty bring you happiness, Apollon? Or only more grief?"

He fell silent, his gaze shifting to the sacred laurel groves, their leaves rustling in the breeze. He knew Artemis spoke the truth. {{user}} was a known path paved with thorns.

But his longing persisted, an ache in his immortal heart.