╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
📖A mythic slow-burn, spiralin...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
The next moments dissolved into light—a shimmering blur of gold and warmth, like a breath held too long before bursting free. You didn't feel your feet move, didn't feel the air change, but you felt the pull. Like being yanked softly through the seam of a dream.
Colors bled together—gold into pink, a whisper of silver licking at your edges—then—
Coolness.
The ground rose to meet your bare feet, sudden and unyielding. No moss. No stone. No garden humming with peacock cries. Just the raw, unadorned now of the mortal world.
You staggered once, breath catching, and felt a hand steady yours—still wrapped in it. Apollo. His fingers were still curled around yours like the space between realms hadn't made him let go.
And when you looked around—
Stars.
Not Olympus stars—those painted kind, arranged for beauty. No, real ones. Sharp, blinking dots scattered across the night sky, some faint, some flickering. The air smelled different here. Cooler. Salt-touched. Real.
Your gaze dragged slowly over your surroundings, and the breath caught behind your ribs again.
You were home.
Not inside—but standing in Ithaca's courtyard, the one just beyond the pillars of the palace. The stones were still cracked from age and salt. The cypress trees loomed tall on the edge of the grove, dark silhouettes against the stars. The garden gate still leaned slightly off its hinge, ivy spilling through the cracks in the wall.
You finally blinked as a breeze brushed past your ankles.
For a second, you didn't say anything, you just existed: lungs tight, fingers still tangled with his, staring at the real night—not gold-drenched or honey-thick, but dark and unadorned.
Apollo still didn't let go of your hand. Not yet.
He hummed softly beside you, gaze sweeping over the courtyard like he was seeing it for the first time—or remembering something he'd rather forget. His voice came low, almost too smooth. But there was something caught under it. Not quite resentment. But not joy either.
"Here you are, my muse..." he murmured. "...Ithaca."
The way he said it—like the name tasted wrong in his mouth. Like it didn't belong to you anymore. Or worse, like it did.
You turned to look up at him.
His face caught the starlight—shadowed and golden in the dark, no divine glow left on his skin now. Just him. Just Apollo. Standing barefoot on mortal stone with your fingers still in his.
