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Athena had never been Apollo’s favourite sister.
It was not a surprising fact, really, not when Artemis had been stuck by his side since birth, not when Aphrodite, as loosely related as she was, turned out to be far better company than her more stoic relative, not when Athena herself, in that self-assured, aloof way of hers, disregarded all of Apollo’s attempts to kindle some kind of friendship past cordiality on the good days. Less surprising it was still to the others residing on Mount Olympus, Apollo presumed; the favourite daughter and favourite son, opposites in a slightly less complementary way than the boy and his twin.
It was simple, then, for them to be pitted against one another during that war on Ilium (and if Apollo, presider over truth, could not catch that particular fact, what kind of god would he be?). Heroes were exchanged, and there was an as-much-as-he-hated-to-admit it cleverly placed gift horse brought through gated walls and a city ransacked. There was a baby, too, preceded only by his parents and a prophecy that even the god of prophecy himself could not seem to shake, and there was Apollo’s war lost and Athena’s war won and that was supposed to be it.
But now, there was a body on the cot in the infirmary (not a corpse, Apollo had to remind himself, not a corpse not a corpse please not a corpse) and this was not meant to happen.
She didn’t look peaceful, at least; a comforting thought, as horrifying as that may be, as even with that golden blood dripping down her face from that wound stretching from her brow down to her chin and the twitches in her fingers and that terrible, ragged breathing, he could still squint his eyes and see her as just as much the war goddess as she always was, could imagine that she was just as conscious as she always was.
Then Apollo opened his eyes properly, and he almost threw up (not for the first time that day, as he would privately admit). She was still breathing, but how long for he was not sure, and the idea made his breath stutter in his chest— there was no precedent for this, and Apollo was the healer and this was his duty to the world and his not-quite-sister (even though that didn’t matter most of the time in whatever messed up dynamic was happening on this cursed mountain and that was only made more clear by that stupid game that caused all this) and he didn't know what to do.
Because Pallas Athena had to live through this. She needed to; there were eyes on Olympus, and if there was the slightest hint that something had happened to her, that something had gone this wrong, that Zeus’ game had this level of lasting consequences, there would be terror like Apollo himself had never seen before— he only knew of such a fear in whispered tales of Kronos, long before his time, not to mention that this type or level of… injury had never happened before to an Olympian.
(Not to mention that Ares would never again have a sparring partner at his level, or someone to balance out his bloodlust. Not to mention that Artemis would never again be able to find someone quiet enough, in the same way she was, to sit by in silence. Not to mention Apollo himself, that some rational logical terrified part of him wanted her to live, live, live, but another littler emotional angry part thought of Asclepius and a different flash of light and a different scream of horror and thought this is unfair if he had to die then why didn’t—)
But he was Paean Apollo and he was meant to heal, amongst numerous other things that he still needed to attend to. He craved, briefly, for the opportunity to hand the sun chariot over to Helios for an eternity or two, but that meant he would have to speak to God-Father (not his real father, not anymore, but since when did anything but blood matter, really?) and he ached to cede the forever-running cold war on the archery domain to his sister, but he knew she would hate to take on the training of champions that would then be her responsibility, and he was so tired.
Maybe it was Athena’s own fault; Athena, who cared so deeply about that mortal stuck on Ogygia that she would grit bloody teeth and stand through one lightning strike and the next and the next and survive, though it was shared through whispered words and furtive glances that Hermes Psychopompos himself could nearly see her soul flee that battered body right then and there as she lay on the floor whispering let him go, please, and wasn’t she scared?
Or maybe it was Apollo, who felt too much, who sobbed to rival even the goddess of love herself and shattered on every mortal lover lost and twisted their forms so they would stay with him forever and ever and ever but he couldn’t make them stay with him in their fragile mortal bodies, couldn’t make them survive whatever curse had been placed on him at birth to make them all leave in whatever cruel way the Fates wished.
Even now, looking at the body of his sister, on the cot just ahead of him, golden-scarred eyes closed, he couldn’t force himself to move; even though he was supposed to fix this— mistake, if he wanted to think of it in the lightest of terms, as if he thought of it as anything other than a mistake, an error, a circumstance outside of the norm, he would really break down but that wasn’t helpful, was it.
He was hit by the sudden urge to run away, away, away from all this, but Zeus controlled the skies and there was nowhere to hide. Really, safety was simply a façade when he was, now that Athena had done this, the sole golden child, the new favourite for however long this would last. Even if not in mind, God-King Zeus was his father in blood and there was nothing he could do about that but he had to do something about this and so he needed to stay put and bandage this mess together, no matter what it took.
Olympus was quieter than normal. The clouds surrounding it were still grey, still buzzing with electricity. No one dared to go near— not even the youngest of nymphs.
The sun was dim overhead. Its path across the sky never slowed.
Apollo took a breath in. He stood over the bed with shaky hands outstretched, pressing so much power into his palms that he felt faint but this was for the greater good, wasn't it, and hummed as uplifting a tune as he could manage with the tiniest hope that it might help, and healed.