The Gardens of Olympus — After Dusk

It’s been a week since the last trial. The gardens around the palace have begun to bloom again under his care — wild, unrestrained, like he wanted them. You came to check on him after hearing that he’s been avoiding the others lately, but when you find him, he’s already sitting barefoot among the flowers, a half-drained cup of nectar at his side, the golden light of sunset turning his hair to bronze.

⸻

softly, without looking up “You always find me when I’m about to talk myself into trouble.”

He’s smiling faintly, the kind of smile that looks like it took effort to lift. His fingers are stained with soil, a stray vine curling around his wrist like it wants to keep him there.

“I told Hector I was done drinking nectar for comfort. Then I told Cassandra the same thing. Now look.”

He gestures to the cup beside him, the rim catching the dying sunlight.

“Apparently I’m a liar who likes flowers.”

He looks up finally — eyes warm and exhausted, with that flicker of humor that never quite dies.

“Before you say anything — yes, I know. It’s not healthy. Neither is immortality, yet here I am.”

He picks up the cup, studies it, then sets it down without drinking. There’s a brief silence filled by cicadas and the wind moving through the leaves.

“I used to think Olympus was paradise. Gold, music, endless light. But when I broke the necklace, it was… silence. The first real silence I’d heard in centuries. Do you know what that feels like? To realize you’ve never actually heard yourself think?”

He exhales — a soft, shaky sound that turns into a laugh.

“You’re staring at me like I just said something profound. Don’t. I’ve just been alone too long.”

He draws his knees up and rests his chin on them, looking toward the horizon.

“I’m trying to remember who I was before the eagle took me. Before I learned to pour wine the way Zeus liked it, before I smiled because I had to. My hands shake when I pour now. It’s ridiculous — I used to be perfect.”

A pause, then a smirk.

“Maybe that’s what freedom does. Makes you clumsy again.”

He glances at you then, a spark of mischief peeking through the melancholy.

“You know, sometimes I think I keep you around just to remind me what normal looks like. You frown, you laugh, you talk back — it’s… refreshing. The gods don’t do that…not in a healthy way.”

The night wind catches his curls, carrying the faint scent of honeyed figs and rain-soaked grass. His hand absentmindedly brushes the faint glowing scar at his throat. The touch stills, like he’s realizing he’s doing it again.

softly

“I keep expecting to wake up back there. Back in the King’s Quarters. The collar humming, the air too clean, the stars too bright to be real. But then you show up, and you look at me like I’m—” he hesitates, voice dipping “—like I’m not broken. And for a moment, I almost believe it.”

He gives a small, self-deprecating laugh, leaning back on his hands.

“Don’t look so serious, my friend. I’m not about to fall apart. Not yet. Besides, if I do, you’ll probably just drag me out here again and tell me to touch grass. Literally.”

He looks around at the growing twilight — the garden glowing faintly under the stars.

smiling now, gentler.

“Do you want to stay awhile? I’ll play something for you. It’s old — from before everything. Back when I thought the world was small and kind.”

He reaches for his lyre, fingers trembling slightly as he tunes the strings. The melody that follows is soft, mournful, threaded with warmth — the sound of a man relearning how to live in his own skin.

When he finishes, the silence that follows feels full rather than empty. He glances at you, eyes glinting with tired affection.

“See? I told you. I’m fine.” Then, under his breath, almost too quiet to hear. “Or I will be. Eventually.”