Fireside

Apollo

Her pillar was known for its solitude and sanctuary. Her gold and marble home was a safe haven for anyone who wished to enter. The crackling flames of her warm hearth was a comforting sound for those who wished to find peace or respite from the rest of Olympus.

So it wasn't unusual for Hestia to receive visitors at any time of the day, even those who wished not to bother her but unintentionally made their presence known anyway.

Intuition and experience had allowed her to detect the quiet sniffles coming from outside. They'd been barely perceptible over the snapping fire, and if she were any other goddess, she would not have noticed. But notice she did, and she could not stop her heart from taking pity on the familiar deity. The goddess of the hearth gathered her veil so it would not snag, then tapped lightly on her gilded door. The large panels opened to her command, and she peeked from the entryway to see who it was that had sought refuge at her doorstep.

"I thought I heard someone out here," she said once she spotted the broad back, pristine garb and golden hair of the morose god.

He startled at her voice, his hushed cry turning into a gasp of surprise. He turned quickly, revealing to her one of the most enviably beautiful faces in all of Olympus. "Hestia!" the golden-haired god exclaimed. "I'm sorry. Was I being too loud?"

His clean-shaven face grew rosier than usual as he picked himself up and made to retreat. The lyre he'd carefully cradled in his hands only moments ago now dangled at his side, forgotten in the midst of embarrassment. Hestia shook her head, not believing that the deity before her could still act so flustered, even though this wasn't the first time he'd come her way.

"You're always loud, Apollo. Sometimes in the best way possible, and sometimes in the worst." The hearth goddess stepped aside and tilted her head, the posture her indication that she wished for him to enter. "It seems today we are at the less favorable end of the spectrum."

For a moment, the sun god looked like he would balk, but Hestia was sure that her kindly smile should get through to him.

Apollo relented eventually, but only after releasing a long sigh. He took leaden steps towards her chamber, almost as if bearing a heavier weight on his shoulders than the celestial bodies which Atlas bore. There was no light or song in his eyes, a sure sign that what troubled him was nothing minute. "I'm not feeling too well, you see. I'm sure you heard about what happened with Artemis."

The word had been going round for days now, courtesy of Hermes and—surprisingly—Eros, whose sure aim had started the whole shenanigan in the first place. Then again, among all the gods and goddesses, Apollo had always been the least resistant to his nephew's weapon. Of course, it wouldn't have been a problem if the sun god's objects of affection didn't meet such untimely demises.

The story goes that Coronis had lain with her secret swain while Apollo was away, but the god's prophetic abilities stirred and revealed the betrayal. In his sorrow and through Dionysus' brew, Apollo had cried out his anguish. And his sister, the goddess of the hunt herself, had taken her bow and descended to the mortal world before anybody could know her intentions and stop her.

The doors closed as Hestia followed behind her guest, debating whether to breach the subject gently or state things in a straightforward manner. In the end, she decided it would be best to be direct, if only to get the matter out as soon as possible. After all, Apollo was the kind of god who felt things deeply, and it would be cruel to prolong the agony he might feel.

"Are you angry with your sister for shooting your lover down?" Hestia asked.

Apollo's shoulders stiffened, and his pace slowed. The grip he had on his lyre tightened, and if the instrument weren't precious to him, she predicted that he would have thrown it into the hearth out of despondence. Hestia knew then that she had struck the figurative nail on its head as accurately as Hephaestus would have hit a real one.