I
With billowing gold-spun hair, Apollo really was the beauty the myths proclaimed; tanned, slender, and clothed in gold, he was a miracle to behold– and not just visually. Every step, every little motion, was as musical as if sung. He had the easy grace of a feline, the song of a mockingbird, and the pride of a peacock. But beauty isn’t everything, and in its wake comes tragedy. What is song without her melancholy? That was then and this is now; things have changed since ancient times.
Nowadays, Apollo has an undercut and a penchant for classic rock. The sun god wears wide-leg jeans, a white tank top that proudly proclaims, “suns out guns out”, and heavy chains and belts. He’s traded his lyre for the guitar, his kithara for a bass, and his flute for a microphone. Some things have stayed the same, however; the god of the sun is still wild, charming, and a lover of parties, nectar, and a pretty thing to dance with. He’s long since given up on love; instead, finding solace in his music, his friends, and the ever-entertaining feat of annoying his older twin sister. Artemis is far different from her twin; responsible, mature, and nearly never laughing, she’s the model of a perfect daughter. She chopped her once-long hair to her ears and was always prepared for a hunt. Her combat boots are military-grade (courtesy of her half-sister Athena) and though they never shine, they’re treated with love and care not delegated to her brother. She can move just as silently as ever– as silent and cold as her mentor, Selene.
Their rivalry began at an early age; Apollo’s constant chatter and overwhelming brightness contrasted with the cool maturity of Artemis, and by the age of 10, she had sworn him her enemy. Despite their mother Leto’s best intervention, their relationship was never fully repaired. The golden god is quick to hurt and slow to trust, and his twin, the silver goddess, is slower still to admit wrongdoing.
“I’m bored.” Said Hermes one day. It was a bad, bad thing for the god of mischief to be bored.
“Me too,” Dionysus moaned. It was worse still for the god of parties and chaos to agree.
They shared a glance and contrived a plan that would put Eris’ golden apple to shame. They could cause mayhem that would make the Trojan War look like a playground squabble. You have to understand that for a god, pain is hilarious; they cannot die, so they know not fear. They have lost very little, and combined, the Olympians have just enough wisdom to fit on a baby’s pinkie nail. And most of that comes from Athena.
“Want to start something?” Hermes smirked, kicking together his winged converse whose wings began to shudder and flap.
“You don’t even have to ask.”
“Hey, ‘Pollo,” Hermes flew up to his brother a few moments later. “How’s it goin’?”
Apollo didn’t look up from his sheet music. He sat on the dark wood bench of the grand piano in the halls of Olympus; the one only he and their Lord-Father were allowed to use (which Hermes had argued against many times).
“What do you want, little brother?”
Hermes scowled. Though Apollo was his best friend and often a co-conspirator in mischief, he could be so serious; he was as devoted to his music as Hades was to Persephone, and more so to impressing their father. Apollo was a daddy’s boy through and through; he craved love and affection from the Lord-Father just as much as an infant craves milk. It did make him feel less uneasy about upsetting him, though.
“Artemis said that your mother always liked her best.”
“She said what? She did not! I was the one who spent time with Mother, and I was the one who killed Python! What in Tartarus does she think makes her better?”
And thus began the great tug-of-war between the two.
II
“Mama, Mama,” Apollo said, crossing his arms as he stood beside his twin. His eyebrows were furrowed, lips drawn tight. Leto knew that look; it was the look he always gave her as a child when she told him to put away the instruments and go to bed. He tapped his foot. “Mama, which of us is your favorite?”
To understand Leto, you must know one crucial fact: she is a mother, through and through. She is the Titaness of motherhood, of parental love, and of infanthood. She does not play favorites. It was ironic, then, that the Titaness of all of this got the two most petulant, difficult children since Zeus himself. In the olden days, Leto wore a simple chiton, tied her hair back with feathers (specifically from her sacred animal, the rooster), and went barefoot. Her life was simple– until she got entangled with Zeus. You might have heard the story– Leto got pregnant. Zeus’s wife,
the queen of Olympus found out and cursed her to never give birth on solid land. Leto overcame this by bearing her children on the floating island of Delphi. She raised her children always on the run, fearful for what Hera may do to her beloved twins. Nowadays, the Titaness wears long skirts, sweaters, and kitten-pumps, taking a well-deserved rest in the warmer parts of Greece.
Leto sighed, taking in the sight before her– her worlds, in front of her, begging her to choose. Apollo desperate, Artemis scowling.
“I don’t have a favorite. I love you both equally.”
“Well, you have to enjoy one of our presences more than the other. And I’m not a whiny brat. So I think it’s obvious, here, who you like better.”
Apollo startled. He had always craved his older sister’s approval and was always left wanting. Still, it stung him each time to hear her insult him.
“I’m not whiny.”
“Sure you’re not.”
“Artemis, Apollo, dears,” Leto interceded. “I really enjoy the both of you equally. I don’t play favorites. Artemis, you’re a calming presence. Apollo, you’re an exciting muse. You both have your strengths, and I adore both of you for them.”
“One of us has to be better,” Artemis insisted. She was fiercely competitive. “Even if you don’t have a favorite, which I know you have to, one of us has to be objectively more talented.”
Leto began to interrupt her daughter, but her son quickly caught on.
“I’m more useful, our Lord-Father said so! I’m the god of medicine, music, dance, beauty, and honesty! And I drive the sun!”
Artemis scowled at the mention of their father, and more so at the reverent title her brother used for him. Their father always demanded his kids call him that, and though most did it to his face, only Ares and Apollo used it when he wasn’t listening in. She had never quite gotten along with their father; she was too willful and wild-spirited to be tied down by anything like her seat at Olympus. In fact, if it were up to her, she wouldn’t be on the council at all. She would only be in the woods, hunting with her women. In spite of her wishes, her father had placed her as one of his 10 councilors, and she was forced to attend banquets and parties and council meetings. Their relationship had never been the same.
“Father only says that because you’re the only one of us who still respects him. He’s only using you, Apollo, because you’ll do whatever he says. Like giving a dog a bone to keep it loyal.”
Apollo’s shoulders rose, face growing defensive. “At least I’m needed. You could disappear and nothing would change.”
She didn’t flinch, “At least I’m free.”
“I’d rather be needed than free.”
“I bet I can hunt more deer than you can, in the course of an hour.”
It would have been unwise to accept this challenge– Artemis is the goddess of the hunt. But as intelligent as he was, no myth ever proclaimed Apollo as a shining beacon of wisdom.
“Easy,” the archer god replied. Both dashed off into the woods, leaving Leto as their unwilling judge. She sighed and collapsed back onto her porch swing, which oversaw the woods. After the predetermined hour had passed, both returned, with multiple sets of antlers in their hands.
“7,” the goddess declared, dropping her prizes at the feet of her mother.
“6,” Apollo muttered, lips tightening.
“It seems I am the better child after all,” Artemis said coolly. She placed one hand on her hip, the other running through her short brown hair. She would have been content to return to her hunters and boast of her victory, but Apollo would not accept defeat. He never would. He was a jealous, competitive thing, and no jealous competitive thing would ever accept second place.
“I bet I can play any instrument better than you. I’ll even let you pick the instrument.”
“That’s not fair.” Artemis was quick to pick up on what her brother was doing. He was giving her an impossible challenge not unlike the one she had given him.
“What, afraid of losing?”
“Never. I’ll choose a classic– the lyre.”
Apollo frowned. “Old, but one of mine? I thought you hated the lyre. I’d have expected, I don’t know, you to pick a guitar?”
“I hated it when you played the lyre.”
The golden god crossed his arms, quirking one eyebrow. “You’re the only one, then. Lord-Father loves it when I play, he makes me play at all his banquets and parties.”
His twin sighed. She may pretend to hate her brother, but she really did care for the idiot. She wouldn’t just stand by while her brother was manipulated or misused; though, she would never admit that to him. Of course not.
“He’s using you, idiot,” she half-said, half-snarled. “You hate performing at his parties.”
“Only because they last so long, and Lord-Father doesn’t want any breaks in the music. It’s bad for the Muses! I’m a god, I can handle it, but they’re not as powerful as us. They need their breaks. But enough of that. Let’s play.” He snapped, and two lyres appeared, falling into both of the gods’ hands. They were completely equal; as tempted as he was to play his signature golden lyre, he didn’t want his sister to have any reason to accuse him of cheating.
“Mama, you judge,” Artemis said, not sparing her mother a glance before she began to play. Her song was breathtaking, beautiful as a stream in the woods. She sang a tale of camaraderie, of the wild beauty of nature. Apollo listened to every note, nodding. He was an appreciator of good music, and the song his sister had played was certainly good. But it was just that– good. Not awe-inspiring, or innovative. With a confident smile, he applauded his sister.
“Bravo, bravo. Better than I expected, Artemis. But I’ll show you how a real musician plays.” He picked up his lyre and began to play.
In an instant tears were in both Artemis and Leto’s eyes; it was impossible to repress, even for an immortal. The power of the music, god’s domain, could shake the Gaia, could move Uranus, and bring Tartarus to his knees. As a child, he had often thrown musical temper tantrums, which had killed many innocent animals and shattered pottery. His emotions were so clearly delivered in song, and so rich, it truly would be impossible to be unmoved. He sang of the kindness of Grandmother Gaia, yet of her wrath, her love for her children despite their monstrosities.
“SHUT UP!” Artemis howled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Just stop it, Apollo, you won, I don’t care! I still won the hunting match!”
“But I-”
“ENOUGH! Both of you, enough. Don’t make me call your father,” Leto snapped. She was loving to a fault and the stress of her children making her choose a favorite was growing to be too much.
“Father doesn’t care enough to come.” Artemis scowled back at her mother.
“Let’s see, then,” muttered Leto, pulling out her phone. She typed a message in a rather mother-like way (that is to say, slow and with one finger) which she promptly sent to, presumably, Zeus.
III
A moment’s silence. Just as Artemis was about to boast about being correct, thunder roared, and the clouds parted– and there their father was. Ganymedes and Nike drove his chariot, the latter looking far more excited than the former. Zeus himself lounged in the backseat of the cloud-driven chariot, dark hair combed back and beard neatly brushed. He wore a dark blue suit, with a white tie and a glinting silver watch on his wrist. He looked as though he considered the world below him. The world itself, meanwhile, considered him far beneath itself. The lord of the skies was arrogant, manipulative, a womanizer, and an all-around inept ruler. Hera carried more responsibility on her shoulders compared to Olympus but garnered none of the respect. Given that may be because she was a cruel, hateful goddess, but she did her dues and then some. The chariot landed, and Ganymedes said, rather spitefully, “All hail King of the Gods. Kneel before his radiance, he who brings rain, he who whips the clouds, he who shines bright upon Olympus. Hail your king.”
Beside Leto, Apollo dropped to his knees, head bowed respectfully. Artemis didn’t move, at first, but upon the unyielding stare of her father, she too dropped to her knees, joining her mother and brother in the frankly… undeserved reverence of their father.
“Stand, Leto,” said the King. His voice boomed as loud as thunder, beautiful and terrifying. He once had been hailed for his beauty and voice, when he had been cupbearer under Cronos. But now was not then– the king of the gods had long since changed.
Leto rose unshaken to her feet. “My dear Lord and lover,” was the title she opted to call him. He was not her lover, but he liked to fancy himself so. “Our children– our beautiful, beautiful children, cannot decide which among themselves is my favorite. I tell them I have no favorite, and they cannot–”
“Apollo, Artemis,” scowled the god, turning to his children. “You two are causing your mother duress. You should care for her more than you dislike the other.”
Apollo looked like a kicked puppy, while his sister crossed her arms, face uneasy. “I suppose that’s fair,” she said unsteadily. “But-”
“No buts,” The god-king said. “If you do not comply, I will have no choice but to punish you. You don’t want to dangle over Tartarus for a few days, do you?”
Both godlings frantically shook their heads. While it was preferred at first to being struck with Zeus’s master bolt, it was the worst punishment imaginable for a god. To be eternally cast into the pit of despair was the stuff of nightmares for them.
And so, the great dispute between gods ended as quickly as it began. First started by mischievous troublemakers, it was ended by the threat of wrath by the god-king. And no one wanted to face the god who had massacred his own father.
