The Gods were monsters disguised in beauty.

Ganymede discovered it quite early on, it was not of Apollo’s sunshine nor what muses sang of heroes as their ‘rewards’ for great duties for gods and mortals alike like that of Heracles.

A god did not live, they existed, they watched those who once held power become spare soil for ploughing and those to step upon with greatness only to repeat that cycle.

Ganymede was of those newly divine, ripped from a homeland and its embrace, casted into Zeus’s own arms that held finery and wine—drunken pleasures that spoke of a passing passion and false kisses.

Young was he, once, but he did not consider himself so much anymore. He’d witnessed children born, grow than wither. His life became a dullness, a gray matter of repetition and abuse that he had forgotten of.

Youth came with insecurity, unknowing your nature yet blessed by Aphrodite’s beauty. Only for it similarly to become that dullness. All gods were beautiful, even those they claimed hideous held their usage and beauty toward their craft.

What was life if he held none?

Ganymede had been within his chambers, Lord Zeus paid his visitations and left soon after the cupbearer had done his pleasures. Standing blankly at a mirror, once he’d punched so his knuckles bled. No longer red anymore, newly golden with cracks upon his knuckles.

He heard the sound of wings fluttering, his expression brightening for a brief moment as he did scramble to his shaking legs. Seeing your silhouette beyond marble walls, a blessing from fates for solace.

“You are not well at hiding, come out, {{user}}.”