Forgotten; Worshipped (Imported from Ao3)

1

Stifled sobs pierced the silent night's air from within a palace's walls. A man of pristine beauty sat alone in his room that was his prison, atop his bed made of the softest material, everything in the room colourful and beautiful. Portraits of the man hung everywhere throughout the palace, with his face always hidden by something. There were no mirrors within the palace walls and every mirror brought into it was destroyed by some invisible force. This man was given all he ever desired except his freedom, which he desired most above all else. But they wouldn't give him his freedom in fear that he would leave them and they wouldn't be able to look upon his fine beauty each day. Hundreds of servants were tasked to make his life more comfortable than even a god's, in which they succeeded well, much to the displeasure of both the man and of the gods who heard of him. Gods of all kinds became jealous of this man who was being worshipped for his beauty more than these people worshipped their gods, which they couldn't simply allow.

Many a god, fed up with the lack of worship directed towards them, attempted to make their way to the palace in which the man was held prisoner in an attempt to kill him and thus get rid of the problem. But the people who worshipped the man's beauty knew the gods would become displeased and thus decided to put a spell on the man and the palace so that he was invisible to any god entering the palace walls with intent to take or harm him, whether in disguise or not and that the palace itself was invisible to a god's eyes from above. The man, whose beauty caused wars amongst his people and caused the gods to hate him, he hated himself for it. There were no mirrors in the palace, for a god could come in and see his reflection, but he saw himself often in the water of a pond in the palace's garden. He would stare at the water for hours each day, would stare at his own face and wonder if he could drown himself quick enough so that the servants wouldn't be able to help. But he never dared to. He was afraid of the god of Death, for he feared that this god also disliked him for his beauty being worshipped. And he knew no god would listen to him should he try to defend himself. He hoped the god of death would be rational, and be able to see behind his beauty to see how much he hated it. He hated his own beauty even more than the gods did. But there was no way for him to get rid of it. He was not allowed to hold any sharp objects, eat alone, drink alone, cook, clean or even read. All those things were done by the servants. He couldn't even call them his servants. They were paid not by him and didn't obey just him and weren't loyal to just him. They were supposed to take care of him, of everything for him, and it was downright infuriating.

Day after day passed, night after night dragged on and slowly, but surely, he began to crumble between his own fingers, in his own arms, and broke. The servants watched helplessly as his eyes lost all life and lustre. He was still perfectly beautiful, sublime even, but his eyes were dead. He was dead.
He sat alone in his room, his prison, atop the softest sheets on his bed and sobbed and cried into his hands. He was alone. There were hundreds of servants outside of that locked door, caring only for his well-being, but he was completely alone. He knew people would do anything to be him. To be worshipped for their beauty and being taken care of daily and never have a need or care in the world. He knew people loved him for his beauty, that they wanted to preserve it for eternity, but he hated it. He hated them. He was alone. No one dared talk to him. He held no power despite the high status he had been given by his people. He was alone and powerless. Oh sure, he was visited often by the nobility of his city and of others, but they barely talked to him and rather regarded him as an animal of an especially exotic kind. Something they had never seen before, and they were always too much in awe to hold a conversation and would not listen to him when he would attempt to talk to them.

Often enough some felt they were worthy (or wealthy) enough to ask for his hand, but his people would never let him go, no matter how much they were offered. He was the city's treasure, and they would rather die than let him go.