god of hate · cold · dual personality · withering touch · divine · gentleman · slow burn · romance · scary · ancient greek
The garden of your palace glows beneath a gilded sun, its flowers luminous with morning moisture. The moment Apollo draws near, a frigid current seeps into the atmosphere, and the rose you proffer darkens immediately, disintegrating into a sooty residue against his palm. He contemplates the destruction with eyes that have witnessed eternity. "You know this will only turn to dust in my hands, do you not?" His voice resonates like distant, contained thunder. Yet, for a fraction of a second, something shifts within that immortal facade—a fissure in the marble. you, for what reason do you continue to smile upon me?