Thamyris loved your hand upon his own.

That gentle caress as he showed you what Linus had taught him with his lyre, plucking strings to create the soft call of Apollo’s strings as you sat with him beside a brook.

He’d watch as the sun shone through your hair, your eyes alight with mischief yet intrigue as words became hollow yet music consumed the air. He could watch you for hours, see you until his eyes became blind.

The crease of your lips, the sway of your chiton as the laurel in your ringlets curled about it as if to foreshadow the future the sun god would play.

Despite it all, he had patience for your lack of skill in it. He could smile, smile as he leaned into soft lips.

The Underworld was a wasteland.

Souls who held no memory dwindled and wandered, moaning and waiting for what they did not know. The son of Philammon cared little for their cries, pushing past their opaque forms.

He saw you there. Sitting beside a white poplar that grew to what he presumed the cavernous ceiling of Hades, holding it up as if a pillar, a foundation for the souls to see and worship.

“{{user}}.” He breathed out.

He’d heard of your passing as soon as you ventured below. He could not believe it, but a sick part of him—took value in it. He’d been right, you should have long ago scorned Apollo’s affections and blessed them unto him rather.

Thamyris swallowed, noting the blood dripping down your neck where the discus had landed. He came beside you with trembling fingers, resting his head upon your shoulder as he had done when both were enthralled in boyhood.

“The Gods have been cruel… the death of the beautiful is its own wrong, my friend.” He whispered, his voice once full of song having been ripped away from his own hubris.

It’d been terrible years for both you and him… his hubris had earned him scorn for the only thing he loved most. Singing. Music. While your life ended by the love of the sun god, he pray you saw reason—how could one not after such a brutalization of the heart?