The Golden Fool

Apollo didn't need to consider. The bow pulled him eastward with insistent pressure, like a lodestone sensing true north. "East," he replied, pointing toward the densest part of the forest. "That way."

"Of course," Nik muttered, limping to his position in their ragged column. "Why would it ever be toward sunshine and meadows and safety?"

They left the clearing without looking back, though Apollo could feel the residual awareness of the forest lingering over the fallen wolves like a mourner at a grave. The gold in his veins pulsed in warning rhythm, matching his footsteps as he led them deeper into shadow.

---

The forest changed as they traveled east, subtle transformations that might have gone unnoticed if Apollo hadn't been watching for them.

Trees that had stood straight and tall near the sanctuary now bent at unnatural angles, their trunks twisted like bodies frozen in agony. Roots erupted from the soil only to plunge back down yards away, forming archways of gnarled wood that resembled rib cages of giant beasts.

The canopy grew thicker, branches interlacing so tightly that the forest floor existed in perpetual twilight despite the midday sun.

"Is it just me," Nik called from behind, his voice too loud in the oppressive quiet, "or are these trees starting to look like they're having really bad dreams?"

No one laughed. The attempt at humor fell flat, echoing uncomfortably between the twisted trunks.

"Sorry," he continued, filling the silence with nervous chatter. "Just trying to lighten the mood. Hard to stay cheerful when the landscape looks like it was designed by a madman with a grudge against straight lines. Though I once knew a theater director in Glassmar who…"

"Quiet," Thorin growled, cutting him off. "Save your breath for walking."

Apollo glanced back to see Nik's face fall, the performer's usual mask of good humor cracking to reveal genuine fear beneath. The sight twisted something in Apollo's chest, a reminder of how human his companions were, how fragile despite their courage.

They pressed on, the bow's pull growing stronger with each mile. Apollo found himself increasing their pace unconsciously, drawn forward by the weapon's insistence.

"Slow down," Mira called suddenly, her voice tight with pain. "I need, I need to rest."

Apollo turned to find her leaning against a tree, face pale beneath the dirt and dried blood. Her injured arm hung limply at her side, the makeshift bandage soaked through with fresh crimson. Tomas hovered beside her, concern evident in the way his hands fluttered near but didn't touch, afraid of causing more pain.

"Just for a moment," she added, seeing Apollo's hesitation. "Please."

The bow pulled against Apollo's decision to stop, its urgency translating into an uncomfortable warmth between his shoulder blades. But looking at Mira's drawn face, at the exhaustion evident in all his companions' postures, he knew they couldn't continue at this pace.

"We'll rest," he conceded, though the gold in his veins flickered with impatience. "But not for long. This isn't a safe place to linger."

They settled in a rough circle, backs to each other as they had during the wolf attack. No one spoke as they tended wounds, shared precious water, chewed the last scraps of travel bread. The silence took on a different quality, not just exhaustion now, but something heavier. Distrust. Suspicion. Questions too dangerous to voice.

Apollo felt it building like pressure before a storm. When it finally broke, it was Thorin who spoke first, his voice low and deliberate.

"What exactly are you?"

The simple question fell between them like a blade. Apollo looked up to find the dwarf staring at him, thick fingers still wrapped around his axe haft.

"I don't understand," Apollo replied, though the gold in his veins quickened with apprehension.

"Don't play ignorant," Thorin said, each word precise as a hammer strike. "I've fought alongside men, elves, even a few mages in my time. None of them shoot arrows of pure light. None of them know exactly where to go in a forest no one's ever mapped."

Cale shifted, his warrior's posture straightening despite his injuries. "Thorin's right. We've followed you without question since finding that bow, but after what we saw in the clearing..." He gestured toward Apollo's quiver. "Those weren't ordinary arrows. That wasn't ordinary archery."

Apollo felt the others' eyes on him, a physical weight against his skin. Lyra's gaze was particularly penetrating, her hunter's instincts sensing the prey's weakness. Even Nik had gone still, his usual nervous energy replaced by wary attention.

'Tell them nothing,' a voice whispered in Apollo's mind. 'They are mortal. They cannot understand what you were, what you've lost.' But looking at their faces, these humans who had fought beside him, bled beside him, trusted him with their lives, the lie caught in his throat.

"The bow," he said finally, a half-truth easier than a complete fabrication. "It's ancient, powerful. Made to fight the corruption we've encountered. I don't fully understand it myself, but it... responds to me."

"Responds?" Thorin's eyebrows rose in skepticism. "That thing practically guides you like a dog on a leash. And those arrows, I've seen divine magic before. Once, in the northern temples." His eyes narrowed. "It looked exactly like that."

"Divine magic?" Nik whispered, his gaze darting between Apollo and the bow.

"I'm not..." Apollo began, then stopped, unsure how to continue without revealing too much or too little.

"Not what?" Cale pressed, leaning forward. "Not human? Not mortal? What exactly aren't you telling us?"

The gold in Apollo's veins warmed with warning, urging caution. These mortals had already seen too much, any further revelation might expose his true nature, his fallen divinity. The consequences of such knowledge could be disastrous, both for him and for them.

"I was a temple guardian once," he said finally, the lie close enough to truth to flow smoothly. "Before I met all of you. Trained from childhood to recognize and combat corruption like what we've seen. The bow found me as much as I found it, an ancient weapon recognizing someone trained to wield it."