stars shatter

they rarely cross paths.  the god of light and healing does not partake in wars like ares does.   apollo is immaculate,  pure in a way that ares could never hope to be.  could not be  --  war is not beautiful nor elegant.   it is gruesome,  bloody,  riddle with grief.   and death---  oh,  death is his addiction.   however ...

ares is not a soldier here,  in the gardens of olympus.   no,  he is wearing a simple white chiton,  his war paint abandoned as he allows the sun to wash over his dark.   he moves his hand in tune to apollo’s music,  humming lowly.   a wargod he may be,   gruesome when his domain calls,   but he is also a god of dance.   it had been dance that liberated him from the metaphorical chains that the giants put around his heart and mind.   he remembers the first time priapus told him to dance,   let go,  move your limbs,  son of zeus!   ares’ initial reaction had been anger.   how could dance help him?   now,  though... now he gets it.   he wants to dance to apollo’s music,   but it would be an insult to his half-brother’s creation.   this song has to be finished before it can be danced to.  it has to be understood.

yes,  he says to them in finality. it is a gentle hum as he recalls all that which they have endured. the deep one. holding onto zagreus as he watched over, frankly, a dying melinoe. gripping the back of moros’ head and realigning his attention when it strayed from the past. standing down the king of olympus and demanding he stand for his birthright, else he step down from his throne. forebearer khaos and their boons to zagreus. the khthonic forms, zagreus’ new power, all of the exhaustion that came… yes, father death says again, as though he began a sentence and didn’t finish it. golden eyes stray to zagreus, who looks like he hasn’t needed a day of sleep since the deep one’s intrusion upon their domain. charis is right; he does look happy. but then again, if he was unhappy, thanatos would feel it in the pit where his heart should be, for zagreus is his heart now, and they are bonded in matrimony and empathic nature. i am happy, charisoula, he smiles, kissing the top of their head. father death pulls away, just for a bit, tilting his chin up, head to the side. and are you?

      so you are the ‘gray,’ regulus concludes to charis’ claims. that their line may be of the darkness but, much like regulus’ own, not so ‘evil’ as the stories tell. there are some who find his family sinister, feared, but he has only ever seen of them what society made them. appearances are only that; and so perhaps this appearance, charis, with their winged form and sharpened arrows, is the saviour they claim to be.

      regulus turns away and looks off into the darkened horizon; they will return by nightfall, rebirth said. and even for all of his magic, regulus doesn’t have the power to banish creatures like those. “protect me, then,” he asks finally, turning his eyes back up to the winged god, “if that is your purpose here.” but why? why me? surely there are those who deserve it more. surely i’m being hunted because i brought it upon myself. “what do you want from me in return?” he hasn’t known these great creatures from his books and fairy tales to trade protection without a price… 

they see the change in his eyes and their own glimmer pleasantly after having heard exactly what they wanted.   they smile and giggle though their lips do not part,   a green glow enveloping their body.   one moment they are hovering above the scorched grass and the next they are at regulus’ side.   the next?  the green glow takes the both of them far away,   a point high enough on a mountainous top where the mortal cannot run away from them.