|
In another lifetime, the appearance of Apollo could’ve lightened Circe’s heart and eased her troubled mind; the Merciful wasn’t a fighter in the slightest, nor would his gentle nature appeal to the chaotic mare in regards to romance. He was a trustworthy soul, though; in the great abyss of changing tides and strange, misplaced attitudes of anger, Circe could count on Apollo for his steady heart and calm resolve. He was strong in many ways Circe remained weak; she liked this about him. And now, as she pulled up to the painted lord and slowed her pace, her sick heart began to bleed with the inevitable. She hated having to confess something so stupid and wrong.
*"Circe, what is it? Is all well?"*
“No,” she said bluntly, and her voice was tortured as she spoke, her eyes desperate as they settled on the Merciful. “I’ve committed a great wrong, Apollo. Please come fix my mistake; Stella needs you.” A gasp settled in the back of her throat as Stella was mentioned; her urgency clear, Circe turned away from him and threw her strenuous, exhausted body into overdrive, hoping the painted stud would follow suit.
The more her thoughts lingered on the broken little bird, the more despairing Circe became; the panic bubbled in her throat, rising like bile until she could actually taste the sour hint of her own fear. Yes—she feared for the bird’s demise. The memory of seasons past—of early snow and fallen warriors—loomed in her eyes, having escaped the vault of her resolve. There had been no saving her Callisto; her fate had been decided before she had taken her first tiny breath. If there was a chance, any chance at all, to keep Stella from knocking on Hades’ gates, Circe would take it gladly. For she didn’t need another inexorable death on her conscious; she didn’t need another lifeless corpse treading on her waking dreams, asking why, asking why.
Circe was done with nightmares.
 |
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
