𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

19 ┃ 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

The chill of marble underfoot had vanished, replaced by the wooden warmth of your room in Ithaca's palace. The transition felt abrupt, as though you had been plucked from one reality and unceremoniously dropped into another.

The air here was thick and humid, alive in a way that contrasted sharply with the suffocating stillness of the Underworld. Your breaths were uneven, shallow, as you struggled to shake off the weight of where you'd just been.

In your hands, the lyre rested heavily, its once-brilliant strings now muted under the soft light spilling from the window. The golden glow that had radiated with such intensity in the Underworld had dimmed, leaving the instrument looking almost ordinary—almost.

You weren't sure when you had sat down, but now you perched on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at the lyre. Your fingers traced the intricate carvings on its frame as though the answers to your questions might be etched there.

The words spoken to you swirled in your mind.

It looks familiar... doesn't Apollo have one just like it?

The thought sent a shiver crawling up your spine, and not entirely from the cold.

Apollo. His name felt heavier now, a presence that loomed just beyond your understanding. If the lyre was connected to him—if it belonged to him—what did that mean for you? Why had Hermes handed it to you so casually, as if it were a mere trinket?

The questions swirled endlessly, overlapping until you couldn't untangle them anymore. It was as though your mind had become an echo chamber, the voices of Cleo, Persephone, and Hades all clamoring for space.

With a frustrated sigh, you set the lyre aside, leaning forward to cradle your head in your hands. The heels of your palms pressed hard against your temples as if you could physically push the thoughts to quiet.

The room felt too small, the walls pressing in around you despite the familiar comforts. Even the faint scent of lavender from the bundle on your desk couldn't soothe you. Your gaze drifted toward the window, drawn by the faint golden glow of the setting sun.

For the second time today, you noticed how time seemed to defy logic. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the courtyard below. The same scene you'd glimpsed before your journey, untouched, as though no time at all had passed.

The dissonance between your experiences and the world's stillness tightened something in your chest.

You had been gone—traversing the Underworld, facing Cleo, singing before gods—and yet Ithaca carried on, blissfully unaware.