The bow demanded attention in a way he couldn't quite articulate, not a voice or even a sensation, but a certainty that grew with each passing moment.
He moved a short distance away, just far enough for privacy without causing alarm. Carefully, he unslung the bow from his back, holding it before him in the clear daylight for the first time.
The weapon was even more remarkable than he had initially realized. The wood, if it was wood at all, possessed a grain unlike any earthly tree, swirling patterns that seemed to shift subtly when not directly observed.
The string gleamed with an inner light that reminded Apollo painfully of the gold in his own veins.
Acting on instinct, he reached into the quiver that had somehow appeared alongside the bow, he couldn't remember finding it, yet it had been there when they emerged onto the hillside.
His fingers closed around a shaft that felt both solid and somehow insubstantial, as if it existed in two states simultaneously.
