Leaving is something he knows how to do. He excels at leaving. He can take to the road, to lands unknown, to the bosom of strangers, with nary a pang of fear or uncertainty. Apollo knows how to leave without looking at that he is hastening away from.
He does not know how to return.
Long after an epitaph is engraved in stone, and long after he has taken to the road with staff and wayclothes, he finds that he must return. Fear is no less bitter or pungent the second time around, he realises. So he lingers in inaction, closing his eyes and wishing that circumstances change and that he may never need to face his Waterloo again. He will be glad enough to remain on St. Helena for long, long years to come.
He does not know how he will return and look upon a hyacinth swaying merrily in the western wind. He will. Somehow. He will shine upon the hyacinth, and each ray shall be a strain of music, seeking to sing a paean to the hyacinth, enough to warm the delicate petals; but never enough to burn and wither. Nobody will notice, and everything shall remain the same, for who will believe that the sun rises only to shine upon a flower?