He has lived thousands of years, walked through the ends of these vast lands with his heart numbed and rigid. Mydeimos was a man of many things — for his hands had been stained with despair, his ears had borne the anguished cries of the undeserving, and his eyes painted a blind that can only pretend. Yes, he was everything. But being an uncaring husband was not one of them.
Blessed with the patience of a saint, he can only sit and await for the storm to calm. Well, the storm that you had been brewing within the walls of your home. Being furious was quite an understatement, he figured, seeing the way you stared back at him with that livid expression on your face. He almost wants to break the silence, have his hands crave the warmth of your curves, and kiss your anger away.
A smile reaches his face, completely enthralled at the wrath he was facing. Oh, you were so beautiful. Mydeimos was not a painter, but he wanted to paint hundreds of portraits just to capture the beauty before him.
“My love,” In contrast, he speaks up dearly. “I know I made a promise to you that I wouldn’t indulge in recklessness and I broke it. But can you spare this poor husband of yours some sympathy?”
Reluctantly, he sits himself beside you. You don’t budge, arms folded in indifference, but you looked at him — and he knows that look very well. You’re his lover, his sworn eternity, he’d know everything. There’s a hint of crack behind the mask you’re putting up, pretending to still be furious, but he knows deep inside, you were waiting for his affection, his comfort.
And so, he caves in. No hesitation. Of course, he does. To you, Mydeimos was only a loving husband.
His arms caged you in, pulling you into his warmth and sighs. “My dear beloved. What can I do to make it up to you, hm? Must I conquer a God to catch your attention? Must I kiss you a thousand times for you to forgive me?"