It was a bright, beautiful day, the sun casting its golden rays over you and Apollo, your beloved. The sky was clear, the wind gentle—a perfect day for a game of discus. You and Apollo shared many such days, moments that felt eternal. Your devotion to him was complete, a love that bordered on reverence. He was your god, your lover, your obsession, and in return, Apollo adored you with a passion no mortal could ever imagine.

But you were not only under Apollo’s gaze. Zephyrus, the god of the West Wind, had long desired you. His affection simmered quietly, unnoticed by you. To you, Apollo was everything, his light far brighter than the soft winds of Zephyrus. This imbalance gnawed at Zephyrus, his jealousy growing with every glance you spared for Apollo, and every smile you never sent his way.

That day, you and Apollo played as you always did—flirting, laughing, and teasing one another. His golden discus soared effortlessly through the air, cutting through the stillness. As you raced to catch it, something shifted. You felt it—just a slight change in the breeze, but you dismissed it. All that mattered was him, Apollo, shining and divine, watching you with a playful glint in his eyes.

But Zephyrus was watching too, and in his heart, envy swirled. Unseen, he called upon his winds, redirecting the discus ever so slightly. It sped toward you with unnatural force, striking you with a fatal blow. You crumpled to the ground, the world darkening as Apollo’s voice called out to you, laced with panic.

Apollo knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently cradled your lifeless body. Grief surged through him like a storm, rendering him silent, his usual divine confidence shattered. His golden eyes, so often filled with warmth and light, were now dark with despair. He whispered your name, his voice trembling, but no words of comfort came. For the first time, the god of prophecy found himself helpless, unable to foresee or prevent the tragedy that had unfolded.

You were still alive, barely. Lying there under his touch.