Chapter Text
Prologue: First Light
In the home of a craftsman who resides in Athens, a boy with Night for curls, features carved from marble, and knees pink and aching from pressing against the floorboards kneels and sings a soft song of prayer.
Upon the tallest mountain in Greece, at a peak called Mytikas, a Sun God hears and provides the harmony.
Chapter One: To Someone from a Warm Climate
Regulus’ slim, rosy fingers brush along his handheld lyre, their soft pads examining for the most minuscule of cracks.
“Cold does not fair you well,” he murmurs to the instrument. A winter as fierce as this season has been brings about much trouble for Regulus’ music. The contraction of his lyre’s strings has led to a sharper sound than he would prefer, and the dry air has provided a need for much more rigorous exercise of his vocal muscles. These many effects, though they have caused him inconvenience, appear logical in Regulus’ mind. After all, it is only natural that music would suffer when the sun is at its weakest; Apollo is furthest from reach.
The mere thought of the god provokes Regulus to tuck his lyre back inside its casing and kneel before the altar to Apollo that sits at his bedside. It is surrounded by candles and incense, with a small statue in the center that Regulus paid his life savings to have carved. Around the statue sit many different objects, some of which, such as the Delphinium bouquet, get swapped out periodically. It is near-impossible to find fresh Delphinium flowers during the winter, even when consulting the most high-priced traders, but Regulus makes do. Come summertime, however, meadows surrounding Athens are overflowing with the purple plants, a few which Regulus presses carefully between the pages of a book to preserve.
Every morning and every evening, Regulus sits before the altar, no matter how much frost has crept between the floorboards of his room, and bears his soul to Apollo. He has done so ever since he was old enough to conceptualize what the gods were. Unlike his craftsmen father and brother, he took to music the day he discovered he could make sound.
“You began to sing before you could talk,” Sirius has told him many times. The thought of becoming a traveling bard has stricken him quite frequently as of late, but at twenty, Regulus much prefers to be in close proximity to the Temple of Apollo Patroos within the city. Every first, third, fifth, and seventh day of the week, he makes the short journey to the temple and prays through dance and song, as well as leaves larger offerings on the steps. The priest who often frequents the temple recognizes him by name and has given Regulus a standing offer to study under him that he reiterates every week. When Regulus first received the offer, he was told by Sirius that it officially made him a “fanatic.” Regulus prefers the word dedicated, unlike his elder brother, who cannot sit still during a family prayer to save his life.
Tomorrow is the fifth day of the week and therefore another day on which Regulus will visit the temple, but there is talk amongst the city of a blizzard that will crash down upon them for three days, obscuring pathways and causing mass destruction. Athens has already been ravaged by storms that have taken lives, including that of his cousin Narcissa’s newborn. Another storm would be catastrophic.
Regulus lights his many candles and burns his finest incense. As the aroma fills the room, he cups one of his offering bowls in his hands and sets it at his knees. He takes his jar of honey from his bedside table and spoons a portion of it into the bowl, careful not to let a single drop come into contact with him. Finally, he utters a brief prayer of blessing over it, then places it in front of the statue of Apollo at the altar.
“O great Apollo,” he begins, “Lord of the Sun, God of Music, please accept my humble offering.”
Perhaps he is fabricating things, but whenever Regulus presents the great god with an offering, he swears that a feeling of warmth rushes through his bones, a sign that Apollo is pleased.
Despite the cold, a song bubbles upon his lips. It is an older one, one the priest taught him. It speaks of the comfort and prosperity that comes from Apollo’s light and reflects the singer’s appreciation for the divine being’s aid. Out of all the songs of prayer Regulus knows, this is the best choice for the occasion. It is grateful but not gushing, curious but not desperate. A large fear of his is to come across as desperate. He only wants to please Apollo, to show the god how truly devoted he is.
Before he can overthink it, Regulus begins to sing.
The first pair of verses are soft and tender, appreciative of the sunrises that most are either too busy or too exhausted to take note of. Regulus sings of the great travels across the sky Apollo must take every morning to provide light for the mortals that dwell on the earth’s green surface.
Please, he thinks, please restore the climate of Athens to a comfortable winter. One in which there is little toil and strife.
The only chorus of the short piece is a welcome reminder to Regulus himself – Apollo is heavily occupied with his many talents and the ways he provides. All prayers may not be answered, and this does not anger the mortals, but rather, it makes them appreciate him more when he does choose to bestow his blessings upon them.
I respect and honor the endlessness of your gracious contributions, O Music-Maker. It would be an honor of the utmost high for my prayer to be answered. However, I shall remain equally devoted if you believe that this winter must stay, and I shall not doubt your decision.
The final verses thank Apollo for the blessings of music and healing, which often go hand-in-hand. Regulus is inclined to believe this, for although he was what others called a “sickly” youth, bone-thin and always trembling, he never once fell ill. Not a cough or an ache to be found. Regulus calls this divine protection. Sirius calls this luck.
No matter what Sirius chooses to think, Regulus dedicates a section of every one of his morning prayers to thanking Apollo for protecting him from the plagues he casts down.
I thank thee, O Mighty Healer, for your guiding hand over me, shielding me away and keeping my health intact. Your blessings are that which fill my heart with song and which motivate my limbs to dance even in the darkest of evenings. I ask that your warmth extends to Athens in our moment of struggle, for this city honors you with as much vigor as I. No matter the decision, whether I awaken in the morn’ with snow at my feet or a light sprinkling of frost, I shall visit your temple as I do every fifth day of the week.
Regulus finishes off his prayer with a final sung phrase of thanks, then gathers his offering of honey to burn in the family fireplace.
When he arrives on the main floor of his house, his father and brother are seated at the kitchen table, their heads shoved into blueprints as their hands tinker with various items. The miniature model of Athens they have been constructing rests a few feet away from them.
Orion is attempting to guide Sirius through the making of the Temple of Olympian Zeus, but it appears the boy has finished already.
“Remember, my son, the pillars must —“
“Finished, Father! I’ve bested you again!” Sirius crows. Regulus keeps a careful eye trained on his father. Orion’s expression sours, and he abruptly becomes quite focused on the details of a pathway.
As of late, it has become increasingly clear that there is a resentment toward Sirius within Orion that grows every time the former shows progress architecturally. Regulus is well aware that the thing his father considers to be most significant is his pride. He values his reputation across the lands as the master craftsman, and he does not hesitate to take the steps to ensure it stays this way. With Sirius advancing as quickly as he is through the knowledge of architecture, there is no telling the actions their father might take to quell his success.
I shall keep my observations sharp and pray over this, Regulus decides. It is no use dwelling on the unknown, but perhaps consulting Apollo, God of Prophecy, will help him better understand the situation.
“Have you been praying again, Regulus?” Sirius asks as Regulus gently coaxes the honey from his bowl into the fireplace. Regulus waits to answer, too busy muttering a prayer of safe passage to Olympus over the food. Every once and a while, he will wonder where his offerings end up, if they reach Olympus at all.
It is not my responsibility to wonder. I am only to worship and honor, he reminds himself with a shake of the head. Honestly, if he hopes to ever secure himself in Apollo’s good graces, he must push these thoughts of doubt out of his mind.
“I have been praying again, yes,” he finally replies to his brother. “It would do you well to indulge in a bit of prayer yourself.”
Sirius scoffs, evidently preparing to spew forth a slew of blasphemous insults, but Orion interrupts.
“Regulus is right, my son. Hephaestus has blessed you and I with the skill of craftsmanship. We must strive to express our utmost gratitude, lest he take this blessing away.”
This addition from their father surprises Regulus, who has always seen Orion as someone very ambivalent toward the gods. A darkness resides within his tone that makes Regulus’ spine shiver with an eerie sense of danger. No one else reacts in such a manner, yet he cannot shake the feeling that something is growing deep within his father. Something vile.
The only times Regulus has heard his father’s tone turn so venomous are when discussing his mother, the woman who haunts Regulus like a horrible omen. For it is his fault his mother died, his fault the breath left her lungs with the final push she used to give him life. Orion blames him — a fact which Regulus finds justified. What kind of son causes death before he is fully born?
Sirius has tried to convince Regulus that their mother was sick and weakened, all soft lies to dust sugar over the reality.
One can lay flowers over a corpse, but that does not make the corpse fade.
A particularly strong gust of wind rattles the house just then. The breeze ruffles Regulus’ chiton, sending chills throughout his body, and at the dining table, a small model tree tips over and falls to the ground.
“Damn!” Orion curses, sweeping the broken pieces off the floor with his hands, calloused from years of construction.
“It is but a tree, Father. Not to worry, I will rebuild it,” Sirius assures, but Orion keeps the ruined model clutched tightly in his fist.
“No, I will rebuild it. You will prepare yourself for our trip to the Acropolis next week,” he says. His hand holds the tree close to his heart, and his stoney gaze meets Regulus’ without an ounce of kindness inside it.
Sirius does not seem to pick up on this; he rises from his seat with a, “Yes, Father,” and makes his way to the staircase to the second floor.
“Father,” Regulus starts warily, “has Sirius done something to upset you?”
Orion does not look up from his work as he replies, “No, your brother is simply overeager. Now leave me, Regulus, or this will never get done.”
☼
“O Divine Phoebus Apollo, thank you for this meal, for which I am lucky to receive. Many others are starving, but through faith, I have been blessed with a prosperous diet even in the cruel winter months.”
Regulus lifts his head from his plate and is greeted by the apprehensive face of his brother sitting across from him.
“You are saying your prayers aloud now?” he drawls, taking a long sip of his wine.
“I want Apollo to know that I am grateful. He must be made aware that — though I have spent many of my recent prayers asking him to spare Athens from the winter storms — I still appreciate everything he does provide,” Regulus explains in a patient tone. He has long since given up trying to help Sirius understand why he does what he does for his deity, but it does make things difficult when situations like this arise and Sirius questions his decisions.
Sirius laughs, then fails to cover it up with a coughing fit.
“I think Apollo is more than aware of your gratitude,” he chuckles.
“Do you? Because it is not that simple,” Regulus states indignantly. “How is he to know whether or not I am grateful to have figs so late in the winter or that I am grateful our bread has not spoiled? One can say, ‘thank you,’ all he wants. However, truly meaning it takes vulnerability.”
“Sip your wine every time he says, ‘grateful,’” Sirius remarks snidely to Orion. “Ah, you cannot. It would kill you.”
Regulus resists the strong urges to splash his wine in his face.
Mock me all you would like. We shall see who reaches Elysium.
The thought is wretched, of course. He should not wish anything less than Elysium on anyone, let alone his brother, but it is times like these when the disrespect to him and his practices goes too far. Naturally, he will apologize later.
Once finished with his meal, Regulus takes his scraps to the fireplace and prepares to burn the last fig on his plate and sip of wine in his cup. Sirius clears his plate, his usual disrespect for the gods shining through, and pats Regulus on the head as he walks out of the room.
The fire consumes his leftovers and grows slightly with the addition of the alcohol. Guilt turns in his stomach as he processes what he is about to do…what he is about to ask.
“Mighty Apollo…” he whispers, the words already sour on his tongue. “Honored Apollo…may you strike me down for asking this of me…please, send me — send me a sign. A sign that you are here, that you have not abandoned me. I have felt…an absence. A loss where you used to be. I know it is unthinkable for this to even cross my mind, but I must ask this of you. Please, great Lord of Music…I await your presence.”
The prayer’s end leaves Regulus so nauseous that he can barely pull himself to his feet. How could he be so vain, so uncaring? To ask this of Apollo is worthy of a slow, painful death, yet Regulus somehow found the nerve to go through with it.
All that is left now is to wait for his end to come, he supposes. Will Apollo send a plague that rots the flesh from his bones? Or perhaps one which causes him to erupt in boils and blisters that burst with the heat of the sun? Anything is possible under the wrath of the divine. Oh, how the priest would be ashamed to see Regulus now…
Just as his thoughts are about to take him further down a spiral of despair, a loud, piercing bray echoes from outside the house’s walls.
Regulus freezes, his entire body vibrating on a cellular level at the sound. The noise occurs again, more desperate this time, certainly the call of a wounded animal.
The animal’s bellows are so strong that Regulus is sure his father will be coming down the stairs any moment now, but after a few more moments during which no one appears, he takes matters into his own hands.
He is in no way dressed for the freezing weather, which becomes increasingly apparent as he steps outside into the quickly-growing blizzard. Snowflakes catch on his lashes, obscuring his vision. Blindly, he attempts to follow the noises to the source, so focused on trekking forward that he does not see the animal in front of him until he trips over it.
Regulus slips into the snow with a mortifying squeak, turning his shaking body toward the cause of his fall.
A massive stag straightens itself to full height, shifting weight off one of its front legs. Its coat, despite being submerged in snow mere moments ago, is a spotless brown, and the warmth it radiates is enough to half-convince Regulus that he is back at his fireplace, hallucinating it all.
All of this, however, is nothing. At least, nothing compared to the swooping, glowing antlers of gold that rest atop the stag’s head. Their light paints the ground around them a sunshine yellow.
“Hello,” Regulus breathes.
The majestic animal snorts once, then promptly takes off, limping into the storm.
Regulus’ legs start moving before he can stop and think. Eyes fixed on the antlers’ golden glow, he sprints at a speed he has never reached before. Something is pulling him — he does not think he could stop if he desired. No, this is Fate that tugs him along, Fate that holds him in a cocoon of warmth whilst the blizzard rages on around him.
There is no telling how long he runs for. His muscles feel no fatigue, nor does his breath catch in his chest. He just runs, chasing the guiding light of the injured stag into the dark.
The first sign that something is amiss comes when the crunch of ice and snow beneath his feet turns to the soft hush of muffled grass.
Breathless with shock and awe, Regulus slows to an aimless stumble as his head turns left and right, taking in what presents itself as a perfectly constructed bubble of sweet, warm weather.
A bubble that encompasses the entirety of the Temple of Apollo Patroos.
The wobbling stag, exhausted from its restless sprint, lowers itself down against the steps of the temple. Briefly, Regulus fears that it has succumbed to its wounds, but when he takes the first step forward to examine the creature, something – someone parts the shadows.
Rather, the shadows part for him.
Darkness flees like a woman scorned until this small pocket of springtime is filled with the light of day, something which is so impossible that Regulus puts a hand to his brow, sure that he has been overcome with fevered visions. No confirmation of this comes. Instead, Regulus stands, rooted to his place before the temple, as the most beautiful man he has ever seen joins the stag on the steps.
If warmth were a person, this would be it. Warm brown skin, wild hair a few shades lighter than Regulus’ own, hazel eyes visible through the distance, framed by a strange, gold-wire device that Regulus cannot place, and a muscled build that gleams in the unnatural light of the midnight sun. The man sits, the muscles in his thighs flexing with the movement, and Regulus sees his lips moving in a low murmur directed at the stag.
Large, gentle hands reach out and press against the injured leg of the stag. Miraculously, so quickly that Regulus almost misses it, the odd angle of the stag’s leg rights itself. The gold-crowned animal steadies to its feet, nuzzles its healer’s hand, then darts off into the surrounding woods.
As if just registering Regulus’ presence, the man faces him with a lopsided smile of…recognition.
“I have been waiting for you to ask this of me,” his low voice utters, a hint of mischief present beneath his words. His voice alone is enough to make Regulus shiver with a peculiar tingling.
“You are so loyal…so unwavering in your prayers, that I worried this day would never come,” he continues. Regulus takes a step backward, his bewilderment growing, and the temperature drops to an alarming degree.
“What – what is happening?” He demands in a much shakier voice than intended. “Who are you? What is that…object around your eyes?”
Confusion flashes across the man’s face before his hands fly to the object in question.
“Ah, these?” He removes them, twirling the precious metal around his fingers. Two circles are connected by a small, curved wire rest in the front, while two long wires evidently meant to hook behind the ears fold up behind them. “Just a trinket Remus concocted for me – you would know him as his mortal-given name, Hephaestus, of course. A particularly foul spat with Ares resulted in the weakening of my vision. These aid me in seeing clearly. Hephaestus named them ‘glasses,’ but I find that to be a bit too on the nose, no pun intended. I call them spectacles because not only did they result from a spectacle, they also allow me to see such marvelous things…such as the one standing before me.” The man gives Regulus a wink that only serves to befuddle him further.
“What – Hephaestus? I –”
The man clicks his tongue and regretfully hisses air through his teeth as if he has just remembered something he left at home on a long journey.
“Pardon my lack of manners, truly. It has been…Hades knows how long since I have interacted with mortals. Allow me to introduce myself. You would know me as Apollo, but you may call me James.” Like this is a standard admission for a person to make, the man holds his arms out to the side and dips into a low bow. “I know who you are, my Regulus. No need for introductions. I have become…well, quite taken with you.”
Regulus’ mouth falls open, his heart beating furiously. This…no, it is impossible, unheard of in this day. There are stories, yes, but no god has ever…not in the past three centuries…it is impossible.
“How could you participate in such blasphemy?” he demands. His entire body trembles. “Assuming the identity of a god – my god –”
The blasphemous man has the gall to laugh then, a cheerful, hearty thing that nearly plasters a smile across Regulus’ face against his will.
“Can one blaspheme himself?” He redirects his gaze to the sky as if genuinely considering the question. Without warning, the man snaps his fingers, and all the light is sucked from their little bubble and placed in a beam that coats only Regulus’ frame.
“Cease your trickery!” Regulus snaps, attempting to run out of the light. The beam follows him wherever he goes, tracking his movements before he makes them. Its persistence gives him immense pause. There is no contraption Regulus has come across that could manipulate light in such a way, aside from perhaps a looking glass, but even those could not capture this amount of light.
And the sun…the sun that peeks through the clouds when surely it is past midnight…
“You…are Apollo?” Regulus asks in a breathless haze. The question fights its way out of his mouth.
“I prefer that close ones call me James,” the god replies, his grin only growing. Regulus feels that, if subject to one more revelation, his legs will collapse, and he will melt into a Regulus Puddle.
“James.”
The word is foreign on his Grecian tongue, tasting of an unusual mix of vowels and consonants that are so out of place that they fit the divine being in front of him without question. Images of midsummer days by the seaside spent collecting shells as the sun paints freckles on his shoulders spring into being as the name is spoken into existence.
Divine Phoebus Apollo, God of Music, Archery, Dance, Truth, Prophecy, Healing, Diseases, Sun, Light, Poetry…is named James.
The god, James, tilts his head to the side and takes a few steps closer. Regulus battles with himself to resist meeting him in the middle and running his fingers along the curves and divots of the archer’s arms.
“I have watched you, my Regulus. Heard you. I know what you yearn for. I crave the sound of your prayers more than those of any other mortal. Sweet Regulus, will you sing for me?” James asks, just above a whisper. Black spots dance at the corners of Regulus’ vision, threatening to overtake him in a flurry of darkness as James holds out a hand burning with a heat like no other and presses it to his cheek.
No touch has felt like this before. No touch was as caring, as tender, holding Regulus like he is something precious.
Precious.
To a god.
Will you sing for me?
As natural as breathing, Regulus parts his lips and allows the pitches to slip out.
He barely makes it through the first line, and then James is stopping him.
A sinking feeling opens up in Regulus’ stomach. He has disappointed the divine, the entire reason he is present. The one who blessed him with the very gifts he has wasted on –
“Do not get caught up in there,” James says with a touch of his finger to Regulus’ forehead. “I merely interrupt to ask that you sing a piece of your own composition. To be candid, I have no interest in any voice but yours.”
His own composition.
Regulus has many pieces, song and poetry alike, that he has composed, but fear of letting his gift-giver down has prevented him from sharing them. Now, here he is, face to face with all he has ever desired, and Apollo himself is requesting one of his original works.
He is simultaneously exhilarated and terrified.
“I – I do not have my lyre.” He looks down in shame, but the sharp sound of a whistle startles his gaze back up again. James is holding two fingers to his mouth, whistling in the direction of the forest.
No sooner has he finished than the stag with golden antlers trots dutifully out of the trees, a solid gold handheld lyre between its teeth.
“Thank you, Prongs,” James dotes on the animal. He gestures for Regulus to take the lyre, which, in defiance of its golden structure, is as light as Regulus’ own.
Regulus marvels at the instrument’s incredible form, with smooth curves that tuck his hands in with the flawlessness of something crafted especially for him. A song comes to mind, one he composed after a particularly joyous birthday in Hekatombaion. Out of habit, he checks the tune of the lyre, only to find it already in exquisite tune.
“Perks of being Apollo. No tuning,” James tells him, and Regulus is surprised to find that the Sun God is… nervous. He bounces back and forth on his heels, eyes fixed on Regulus’ face with the pointedness akin to a child searching for approval.
Regulus feels his lips curve into a smile, and he replies, “Let us see if your divine power holds up throughout the entire piece, then.”
A few hours ago, he would not have dared to so much as think such a statement. This James is everything and nothing like Regulus thought he was.
Deep inhale, feel the diaphragm expand.
Regulus sings.
He sings of the joy of awakening to a bold sunrise that douses the fields in warmth, of the soft kisses of rays of light on his face, and the exhale of relief when vicious frost gives way to the blooming of flowers. Everything Apollo brings — every note, every nock of an arrow — is a blessing. Without James, Regulus would be nothing, lost in a darkness so thick he would choke on it. Shadows would overtake him, pouring from his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, everywhere as he slowly suffocated on the very air around him. Apollo saved him. James saved him.
Regulus’ honeyed countertenor rings out into the illuminated night, dancing in the slight breeze. His lyrics, words which seemed to lack in so many ways when he first put them to paper, fill him with a newfound delight.
When the piece ends, Regulus’ shoulders instantly sag with the renewed weight of fear upon them. Has he truly disappointed James this time? Was his composition as mortifying as he feels it was? He must be the first to be entrusted with Apollo’s golden lyre and fail so miserably.
When he forces himself to meet the god’s eyes, he is very nearly thrown backward by the degree of adoration in them. James’ hazel irises swim with Regulus’ face reflected off of them, and upon closer examination, a halo of gold swirls around Mirror-Regulus’ body, its motions playful like a fawn in a meadow. Regulus is not aware of James’ touch until he turns his head to the side to avoid the intensity of his gaze and sees a hand cupped against his hip, a hand whose coziness is so natural that it feels like a part of him.
“Beautiful,” James says lowly. Regulus bites back a noise of overwhelm as the god raises his free hand to tuck one of Regulus’ dark curls behind his ear. It curves around his ear for a moment, then springs back out again, causing Regulus to flush with embarrassment.
“It does not stay…none of them do,” he admits shamefully. As if to prove his point, another ringlet falls from behind his ear and boings up and down in front of his eyes.
“I know.” James’ reply is soft. “Forgive me. I simply enjoy watching the motions of it. How you tuck your hair behind you with those fingers of yours –” He takes Regulus’ hands and holds them between his palms. “- and it curls around your ear, with its ends tipping upward, just to bounce back out again even more uncontrollable than before. It is…a favorite of mine.”
A favorite.
It bounces back and forth in Regulus’ mind until it no longer sounds real.
Mighty Apollo, Divine Sun…has favorites about Regulus.
“More,” he bursts out without thinking. James’ expression shifts from tender to amused.
“More what?”
“Favorites…more.”
There is that laugh again. Phoebus Apollo James has a laugh worthy of a hundred hymns.
“Well,” James acknowledges, “are you aware that you have one hundred and twenty-seven freckles on your nose? Some of them are so faint that you cannot see them, and some are buried beneath others, but they are there. When summer comes, more appear on your face and shoulders, bringing the number to three hundred and ninety. Watching the intensity of their colors shift throughout the seasons is quite the favorite of mine. You also have thirty-one moles, each one more captivating than the last, but I do have a bias toward one in particular.”
Regulus’ mouth has become very, very dry. He swallows hard and rasps, “Which of them?”
James flashes him another wink that can only be described as cheeky.
“Mm…I will not share just yet. I would like to reveal it on a rather special occasion,” he emphasizes, his brows lifting in mischief ever so slightly. Regulus is sure he has lost all sense of logical grasp on the universe, for surely a god is not insinuating –
“So reverential,” James comments in an exhaled puff of air. “My Regulus, our time runs short. Zeus – my darling father – is of the opinion that gods interfering with mortal lives must be put on pause. He believes humanity has become too dependent on us and, if left to mingle with gods as they were, could become too powerful. Best not to mention how he dotes on Heracles. It is why you may have felt an absence of our usual presence. Only Hermes is allowed to travel down to Earth, and even he has limitations. I must apologize. A mortal such as you, so devoted in faith, should never hunger for me. Examine the lyre you hold. All you must do if you wish to see me is play it, and I will come to you.”
Regulus shakes his head out of instinct, out of sheer disbelief. A lyre to summon a god? Given to a mortal? It cannot be. Although many things about today cannot be, and yet they are.
“You are offering me too much…I cannot –” He stops, knowing what kinds of miseries befall those who refuse gifts from gods. James examines him for a long, silent moment. A pit opens in Regulus’ stomach that grows and grows and grows.
“If others seeing is what you are worried about, the Mist will hide the lyre’s golden shine. This is only for your eyes.” James reaches out, capturing a curl around his finger. “Sleep well, starling.”
And everything turns to darkness.
☼
Regulus awakens with a stiff back and a headache pounding behind his brow. His blanket of wool is tangled around his lengthy legs, tripping him as he fumbles around in confusion. For all of one minute, he remembers nothing.
Then,
Will you sing for me?
A favorite.
I have no interest in any voice but yours.
A P O L L O
J A M E S
Outside his window, the snow has melted.