He’d shattered the bed with his own hands and never shared it again, kept it empty and unused, forfeiting sleep more often than not, choosing his desk or any concept he could conjure in the ample rooms of his facilities before the comfort of this place. If he had used it at all, he couldn’t remember it. 

Athena had been all consuming. Athena had left an imprint in his soul so deep even after tearing himself apart he could feel the shape of her fingertips. Athena’s touch had branded him so deeply, claiming him so utterly he couldn’t envision the bright sky without bile raising. The crystal floor at the Convocation made him want to reach down his own throat and rip himself apart.

Weak hearted. Weak minded. Powerless. His heart and mind disconnected from her, from their past, but his body? His body, his traitorous flesh, remembers. Lahabrea is but a title, and he’ll never escape the shadow of Hephaistos. The sound of her dainty laugh, the smell of lilies, the warmth and her taste turned sour, repulsive. 

No matter how much of himself he locked away, he can’t refuse his past, can’t erase it, can’t cage it forever and pretend it never existed. Secrets weigh heavily upon the soul and his is weak, torn in two, unable to balance, unable to stop, unable to face the truth and—