🪙「 ✦ BUGGY ✦ 」☠️ @buggymonsteer - Tumblr Blog

Jun 29

anything with apollo's fear that-sometimes-comes-out-when-he's-angry of reader fearing him??? 🫶🏻

I think this is the perfect definition of making a thing out of it 🫣

☛ when your village's crops are failing, they think a sacrifice might appeal to the gods' mercy- only, they haven't taken your lovers deadly rage into account

☛ apollo x mortal!f!reader; sfw; cw: violence, death (not the reader's); wc: 7k

You let the flour rinse through your fingers, watching the fine dust swirl in the dim light. The window was wide open, enabling you to cherish the last whiffs of fresh air. Long and heavy lay the summer upon your small town, bending people's backs as sweat dripped down their temples. Fortunately for you, you were no farmhand- not that farming had much of a point these days. For weeks now, your village’s crops had been failing. The river, too, was running dry, and out in the fields, you could make out a group of children running off to fetch water a few towns over. Desperate attempts to keep some of the crops alive to avoid mass starvation.

The dough was soft beneath your palms, sticky with honey, and the smell of baking bread wrapped around you like a comfort. You had an advantage over those now begging on the streets- a divine lover who wouldn't have you endure a day of hunger. What he did not know, however, was that you shared his gifts with your fellow townspeople, resulting in you climbing into bed with a growling stomach, but a light heart.

You hummed to yourself, kneading the dough until your arms ached, careful to avoid it getting on your dress. It was too nice a dress for baking. A dress for quiet afternoons, a dress for meeting your lover beneath the pine trees. A dress for better times. But he had announced his visit through signs, and you had dolled yourself up properly to meet him. The last time he'd appeared, golden and radiant as he was, he'd pressed a kiss to your brow and told you to be patient. That rain would eventually bless your village. But you weren't a god, so you could only hope and pray.

That was when you heard it. Faint at first- a dull thud against wood, a voice raised, carried by the wind through your window. You couldn't make out the words, but the tone seemed aggressive. You paused, hands still coated in flour, and approached the window to listen. Smaller brawls about food and water were no rare occurrence these days. But the noise swelled, and you could make out the thudding of many footsteps, the shouting of voices growing louder. Drawing closer.

Dark premonition tightened into a coil in your chest- this was no small brawl, it sounded like the whole village had banded together, approaching this scarcely inhabited outskirt. Nervosity clawing at your insides, you cleaned your hands with a towel and walked towards the door to inquire about the noise. But before you could even reach it, there was a knock. And another. Loud bangs, mirroring the heavy pounding in your chest. Then, a commanding voice sounded through the wood of the door. “Open up, now!”

Your fingers shook with apprehension as you turned the doorknob and opened the door. You were greeted to a sea of faces and chants. Most of them you recognized, and you looked around in helpless confusion at them. But their expressions were twisted into hateful rage, one that you could not explain to yourself.

But before you could make an inquiry, the man who must have knocked on your door, a temple guard, judging by his uniform, obscured your sight by stepping in front of you. He towered over you, much taller than you, and his eyes glinted with a sadistic sort of irony. “Well, well,” he said to himself, eyes raking over your figure. “What a shame.” Without a warning, his hand shot out and wrapped itself around your upper arm in a grip so tight it made you wince. His fingers dug painfully into the meat of your biceps, so hard it would surely leave bruises. He yanked you from your home entrance and into the awaiting hands of the masses.

You stumbled into a curling snake pit of hands, grabbing at you, ripping your clothes, yanking at your limbs. Any sounds of protests, all of your confused questions were drowned out by a flood of screams, chants and yells. Desperate for support, you clung to the baker who you sold your breads to. But, with an almost disgusted look, he pushed you off and against one of the soldiers. Someone fisted your hair and yanked you in no particular direction, and when you cried out in pain, the masses laughed.

You were helpless, and completely disoriented. Dragged around and pushed from one to the other, the world blurred before your waking eye, until your head hit the ground with a painful thud. You scrambled to your feet, but the moment you had found some footing, the hands grabbed at your dress and yanked you. Their pull was irresistible, the voices swelled into a loud chant your ears didn't comprehend. It was too much. Too much pain, too much noise, too much movement. You wanted to fall to your knees and pray, beg for an explanation for this nightmare, but your body was like that of a puppet, strings cut and ripped around by violent hands.

Overwhelmed, all you could to was whisper his name under your breath, again and again. It was no prayer, no ode, no cry for help. It was simply that his name was the only sound that would make it past your lips, as if it was the only one you knew. The only thing tethering you to the world as you lost the ground beneath your feet.

Your cries for an explanation, for help, were ignored as the solider who had knocked on your door got a hold of your upper arms and dragged you down the road, barely letting you walk on your own. As you looked around, through the mist of tears clouding your vision, you could make out people following you or watching the angry procession from their doors and windows. Slowly, you began to understand.

When you stumbled, the soldier ripped you up violently and hit you across the face. The harsh slap made your head spin as your cheek burned. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, and your tongue traced your lip to find it busted. A new string of tears spilled out of your eyes, eliciting hollers and new yells from the crowd that derived great pleasure from your pain.

Only the ground beneath you turning from stamped earth to cobblestone announced to you that you had reached the city square. Under the cheers of the crowd, you were pushed towards the center and onto your knees. With a painful thud, they met the ground, scraping against the hard, uneven stone.

Your village elders had assembled in the center. As you were being dragged before them, they looked up from a discussion they were having; frail old men holding too much power, and glaring down at you as you lay in the dirt at their feet, shaking and sobbing. Your whispers of your god’s name went unnoticed, swallowed by the people’s shouts and chants. Only when one of the elders, a man called Zephyros, stepped forward and raised his hand did the noise gradually subside.

When he called your name, you raised your head shakily, looking into hard, unforgiving eyes. “Pharmakis. You stand accused of dark witchcraft, of destroying our crops and drying our rivers with the goal of starving our city. How do you plead?” (Pharmakis = "witch")

“I didn't do anything!” you cried out, tears and dirt running down your face as the soldier’s grip on you tightened. “Please- why would I do something like that? I am no witch!” Desperation laced your voice, felt heavy on your tongue, as you searched for the right words with dire need. Words to calm their anger, dispel their doubts. But the only thing they seemed to have no doubt about was your guilt.

“You remain the only one untouched by this catastrophe, that has been taking children, animals, and people alike! Your neck remains adorned by jewelry. How did you get it, by baking bread?” A humorless laugh left his lips as angry whispers broke out around you. Someone threw a necklace at your feet- they must have taken it from your home, you recognized it in an instant. As all your jewelry, Apollo had made you take and wear it against your initial protests that it was too much, too good for you. Wide eyed, you stared at the gold as it reflected the sun’s light.

“Your spells have cursed us and enriched you!” Hissed Zephyros, looking down upon your trembling figure, “your greed has angered the gods.”

“Please!” you cried out over a new swelling of shouts. “If I had offended the gods, why would they grace me with fortune and riches?”

“Shut your mouth!” Seethed Zephyros, turning to the crowd and raising his voice so it bellowed all over the city square. “The gods are angry because of her! She’s been seen in the fields at dawn, whispering to the soil. The earth rots under her hands, and the rivers dry in her shadow. A witch, poisoning our village from within!” New tears formed in your eyes, the hopelessness of the situation dawning on you when the people chanted for your death sentence. “The sun turns harsh, the rain refuses to fall- this is her doing. She consorts with dark spirits, cursing our land while we starve. How else do you explain our suffering?”

The words fell upon you like stones, and with your hands twisted behind your back, you were unable to shield yourself from the vile accusations they inflicted upon you like beatings with a harsh stick. They stung- you belonged to this village, you had lived here your whole life, waved a good morning to the same people who were now calling for your execution. Always had you made an effort to provide for those in need, to strike up a friendly conversation with those who were hopeless, had worked in the temple, sold on the market, been at the heart of their community. All that, now thrown out the window as if it meant nothing- it stung more than the harsh fingers digging into your shoulder did.

Your chest tightened as you looked up into their faces, twisted with fear and anger. Looking for a scapegoat. The same faces that had smiled at you warmly, now so hostile, now calling for your demise. Your breath came out in shallow puffs as your heart pounded loud enough to drown out the words the elders spat now, only words sticking out to you. “Pharmakis” “Traitor” “Gods’ ire”. You searched their faces for something- reason, mercy - but all you found was fear, expertly disguised by their hypocritical righteousness. The people you'd prayed for now looked at you as if you were a monster.

“Φοῖβε, ἀγάπη μου… βοήθει μοι…” (“Phoebus, my love… help me…”) you whimpered, lowering your head and squeezing your eyes shut as the desperation and hopelessness overwhelmed you. “Ἀπόλλων, μὴ μὲ ἐγκαταλείπῃς…” (“Apollo, do not abandon me…”). But he didn't come. No ray of sunshine, no glow of reassurance, no soft touch of safety, only the cold stone beneath your aching knees, the painful grip on your shoulder and the harsh words of accusation thrumming against your ears.

Suddenly, the elders fell silent and the crowds' shouts subsided into a low whisper. When you looked up, you were greeted to the sight of a hooded figure emerging from the closed lines of the soldiers. The simpel audacity to interfere with an elders sermon strook them all with silence- the people were props to cheer and fight for them, to applaud them. Not to raise their voice.

But he did- the hooded stranger spoke to the elders, and his voice was smooth and steady as he did. “I am a seer, a holy priest of Apollo. I come only with the most well-meaning advice, and it is dire. I have seen it in the stars, the behavior of the birds: a warning.” He pointed at you and you instinctively shrunk under his pointed finger. “Harming this woman will not save you. In fact, it will condemn you.”

A breathless silence layed heavy on your shoulders, pressing them down as a spark of hope danced inside your chest. Seers were people of the greatest renown in your rural community, religious readers, believed to be speaking to the gods themselves. Apollo, of course, had told you with a smile that most of them were swindlers, his warm fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he explained that only a few were blessed by his divine gift.

“A seer?” sneered elder Argyros after recovering from the shock of someone talking back to him. As the richest man in the village, he was used to people cowering before him. The stranger made no such attempts however, standing still as the elders eyes scrutinized him. “Or just another fool who's been charmed by her sorcery?”

“I am warning you,” the strangers voice sounded, much calmer. In spite of his old cloak and humble attire, he stood upright and his words were made of molten gold. “The sun watches, even now. His light sees everything. And if you spill her blood, it will burn you to ash.”

Your heart beat in your chest as you looked up at the man. Could he be saying the truth? Would Apollo be angry, maybe even grieving if you died? His love for you had always seemed so sincere.

“How can you be so sure it is her who has angered the gods?” asked the seer sharply, turning to the crowd. “Perhaps, the one who displeased them is among your highest ranks.” Turning to the elders once more, his eyes bore into those of elder Zephyros. “You haven't been treating your guests very well, have you, elder Zephyros? The gods value hospitality very highly. In fact, this whole council has treated its guests with a lack of respect and hence brought on themselves their own demise!”

“We don't need omens from a stranger,” elder Xanthos spat defensively, face turning both red and white at the same time. “We need blood to satisfy the gods. If Apollo were angry, he would have struck us down already. Maybe this is what he wants.”

The stranger opened his mouth, seemingly to protest, but elder Zephyros shut him up by pointing a finger at him. “Guards, seize this charlatan!” His eyes held a dangerous glint as they returned to your broken figure. “Take the girl to Apollo’s temple. I will prove to you all that Apollo would rather bless than curse us for this sacrifice!”

Before you could comprehend his words properly, you were seized by the arms and ripped up violently. The steadily growing crowd followed behind and around you as the guards dragged you to the gates of Apollos temple, which was located near the city square. The most glorious and beautiful sight your small city had to offer. The place held some of your most treasured memories. The first time you'd talked to him. He'd appeared to you in the disguise of a mortal man as you were parting before his altar.

“Please,” you whispered to god’s giant marble statue, unaware of the presence looming behind you. It was a warm summer night, the whole town was already asleep- safe for the harlots, the thief's, and you. “Please,” you whispered again, “Just a sign. Anything.”

“What if this sign was another person?”

Even in your sitting position, you spun around so fast that it scraped your knees. Upon seeing the young man lean so casually against one of the holy pillars, you scrambled to your feet, smoothing out your skirt and frowning at him, at his relaxed smirk. “You shouldn't eavesdrop on prayers.”

Though a teasing smirk graced his lips, the young man’s eyes held a certain, almost disarming warmth. “I wasn't eavesdropping. You spoke loud enough for even a god to hear.”

“You have an awfully bold tongue for a worshipper,” you remarked with narrowed eyes, folding your arms over your chest. If you had known you’d meet a man today, would be alone in a room with him, you’d have worn a less revealing dress.

The man let out a soft laugh and pushed himself off the pillar, taking a step towards you. “I’m not here to worship.” Your lisp opened in inquiry, brows furrowed, but he cut you off before you could even speak, eyes clinging to the marble statue. “You talk to that statue like it's alive.”

You glanced at him, unimpressed. “Maybe I have more faith than you do.”

His lips curled into a grin that was irresistible, even in his mortal form. Eyes locking onto yours, you could hear your breath hitch in your throat- and could have sworn he had heard it too, because his grin only widened as he took another step towards you, so casually it could have been by chance. “Or maybe, you like talking to men who don't talk back.”

With a scoff, you averted your face to hide your smile from him. This mysterious stranger was making you extremely flustered. “If that's true, I have no reason to talk to you, do I?” He laughed in response, and your head snapped up at the sound. His laugh sounded like a melody, like a sudden outburst of creative talent. It didn't quite match his voice, in a way that could have been unsettling. But the look of amusement on his face was too warm, too reassuring, too kind.

You scolded yourself for these thoughts- they were inappropriate for someone like you, especially seeing as you had just met this guy in the dead of night in an otherwise empty temple. At the same time, it was the place you felt safest- no one would dare dishonor it through violence, would they? The god would strike them down.

The stranger had reached your side with his languid, slow steps and turned to follow your gaze, eyes wandering over the statue, the altar. There was something like amusement in his eyes, and you quickly averted yours when you realized you were staring. How embarrassing. The strangers lips twitched. “What if Apollo isn't worth your prayers?” He asked into the silence that had settled upon you.

With a startled gasp, you whipped your head around at him, eyes darting around nervously. As if one could hide such impunity in the god's own temple. This man had to be doomed. “How dare you say that in his temple?” you snapped, scrutinizing him with your glare.

Unimpressed by your outburst, he chuckled. “Just a thought. What if he's vain and selfish?”

With a frown, you turned back to the altar. “Even if he is,” you said in a sharp voice, emphasizing the ‘if’, “he still brings light to the world.” You gave him a challenging look that he returned with a look of veiled awe- or maybe you were just imagining things. “Do you?”

The stranger let another soft laugh fall from his lips, but this time, he lowered his head and you thought you saw the lightest of pink tints adorning his cheeks. “Maybe not,” he admitted, locking eyes with with you and giving you a look heavy with something indescipherable. “But you certainly do.”

Something slamming into the side of your face ripped your out of your reminiscent memories. Something was dripping off your jaw, and you realized someone had thrown a tomato at you. Spitting out the juices that tasted like lead on your tongue, you tried to avoid other projectiles thrown at you, but you couldn't miss them all. Some unknown substance soaked the skirt of your dress and mocking whistles emerged when they turned it see-through in places. You felt sick, your head was spinning, your ears thrumming and your vision blurring.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see people lining the house fronts. Not all were shouting and chanting. Many of their faces were averted. They were the ones you would chat with on sunny days, you would share your breath with, who would invite you over for a drink to make friendly conversation. Yet now, they didn't even look at you, turned away, as you were violently shoved towards the temple. None of them lifted a finger to help, none spoke up on your behalf. They all just stood there.

Only the elders and soldiers followed the ones dragging you into the temple. The noisy crowd stayed outside, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Gates wide open, you were thrown against the altar, making you cry out in pain. Rough hands grabbed you and hoisted you onto the marble, then grabbed your collar from behind and ripped your dress open. With a strangled, teaerful gasp you attempted to cover yourself, feeling sick at the way some of the elders ran their tongues over their lips. A few of the soldiers sniggered, but not the one who now held you down.

The priest stepped forward from amongst the elders. For one mad moment, you hoped he would spare you- he had always been grateful for your efforts in the temple, even though you were no priestess. But he didn't spare your dirty, trembling body a glance, opting to turn to the council and raising his hands in prayer. “O great Apollo, lord of light and prophecy, we offer you this life in repentance. Let her blood cleanse our land, and may your mercy restore our fields.”

He gave the guard holding you in place a curt nod and suddenly, you felt something cold press against your throat. Gasping, you realized it was the cold edge of a blade digging into the skin of your neck. A sharp pain cursed through you when you squirmed, fear clouding your senses, and a trickle of blood ran down your skin. You shivered, new tears spilling from your eyes. If only you had seen him one more time, if only you had known it had been the last moment- you would have savored his touch so much more, captured the sound of his voice in your heart, the molten gold of his eyes. Why had you never told him you loved him back?

The priest returned from his sermon, and you could feel death drawing closer. Coldness spread, from the blade against your throat down to your fingertips, freezing your heart as if rushed through the fatal beats that would be its last. You couldn't help the sobs bubbling out of your throat. This was no graceful way to die. Shaking, crying, dirty and desperately holding your dress up. At least Apollo didn't have to see you like this. It would break his heart.

“In the name of the immortal gods, we cast out this child of ruin,” called the priest and the soldier tightened his grip on you. “May her death appease your anger, and may your favor shine upon us once more, lifting us upon-”

Suddenly, he broke off, but you weren't sure why. Your head was clouded with your raging panic, the prospect of certain death. But then, you could make out a figure making their way through the huddle of elders, and their indignant gasps when he stepped before the altar, facing them. You recognized the shabby clothes. It was the seer who had advocated for you.

“We forbid this insolence-” hissed one of the elders, but he seemed to choke on his own words, suddenly falling to his knees and clutching his throat. The air seemed to shift. It shuddered and trembled around you, like it was radiating in waves off of something- someone. The hood slipped off the seers head, and in that very instant, a wave of heat rippled through the air, warping all light. There was no mortal man standing before you anymore. The hooded man was gone, burned away in an instant, and in his place stood something too radiant, too vast, too terrible to be contained in human form.

Golden light spilled from his skin like molten fire, his very presence warping the world around him, like he didn't belong in it. Otherworldly. Heavenly. Godly. His eyes were no longer shadowed by the hood, no longer softened by moral pretense. They blazed with the fury of a dying sun, searing into the huddled elders with a heat that made them recoil. With a round of gasps and cries of shock, they fell to their knees, cowering before the man you had thought most about on this cursed day. Apollo.

The laurel wreath resting on his golden locks shimmered, a crown of gold and flame, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer bound by human restraint. It rolled through the temple like thunder, shaking the stone, splitting the air, making the ground itself tremble beneath them. “You dare,” he said, his voice thrumming in your ears as you stared at him. The elders quivered and cried as they pressed their faces onto the cold marble, but Apollo only sent them a disgusted look before turning to you.

His eyes, ablaze with ancient fury, softened slightly when he took in your shaken figure, your wide, teary eyes. The soldier that was holding you immediately retracted, and you, still dizzy and frozen with shock, threatened to crash into the hard marble of the altar.

But he was there in an instant, hands almost burning on your skin as he held you, as carefully as if you were made of glass. His eyes flickered over you frantically, darkening when they skimmed over the bruises and your hands clawing at your dress to hold it up, focusing on the trickle of blood down your neck. An eerie quiet lay on the room, multiplied by the sheer might of his presence.

“A- Apollo?” you asked, voice shaking, laced with disbelief. Could it really be him? Could you really be safe? When he normally visited you, he looked much simpler, if that was possible for something as eye-catching as him.

His voice was soft as his palm ran over your hair, as if he was trying to prove to himself that you were here, breathing, warm, alive. “It’s me, darling,” he assured you, but behind his calm facade, his voice was taut with restrained rage. “It's me.”

Stupidly, your eyes burned with tears once more, only this time it was tears of relief. You drew in a shaky breath and nodded frantically, fingers trembling as they touched his, needing to feel him against your skin. He was too ethereal to be true. “They-,” you whimpered, choking on your tears. “They were going to- I thought-” Your voice broke off and he drew calming circles on the skin of your arm.

You hadn't thought it possible, but the god’s voice broke when he whispered to you. “I know. I know what they did. What they almost took from me.” Towards the end of the sentence, his voice transformed into a low growl that made some of the elders wince.

His expression twisted into one of pure hatred as he softly layed you down on his altar and turned his attention to them. His fingers trailed lazily across the altar’s edge as he paced, the stone blackening and smoking beneath his touch. He didn't look at the elders as they whimpered and begged- not at first.

He smiled at their fear, a terrible, gleaming thing, as if he was savoring it. “You dare raise a knife to her throat?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Here? On my altar? I have watched men wage wars in my name, have seen empires rise and crumble beneath my gaze. And yet, it is here- here, in this wretched little village- that I find the greatest insult of all.”

Slowly, he stepped down the stairs to the altar, towards their kneeling figures. Apollo moved like a predator- slow, deliberate, each step echoing like a war drum. His golden eyes blazed with fury, burning too bright to look at for long, and the air shimmered around him, as if the very world recoiled from his wrath. “Tell me,” he drawled, “did your fields rot because of her? Or because you are lazy, foolish and undeserving of the gods' gifts?” He halted his steps when he reached elder Zephyros. The old man trembled under the weight of his divine gaze. “Answer,” the god commanded and the elder flinched as if he had hit him.

“B- because of our sin, my lord,” he managed to stutter out, and Apollo scoffed. As he walked past him, Zephyros breathed a sigh of relief. But Apollo soon stopped behind another elder, lowering himself until his lips were just beside the man’s ear. “Kneel lower,” he breathed, and the man collapsed, forehead pressed into the dirt sobbing. Looking at him as if he was something bad smelling he stepped in, Apollo raised himself and let his gaze sweep over their figures, crouching impossibly lower in fear. “I have lit your fields with gold and warmed your skin with light, and this is your gratitude? To carve a blade into the one I love?"

In spite of their terrified state, there was a collective whisper among the elders. As the realization dawned on them, some directed their widened eyes at you, as if begging you for mercy, but Apollo stepped in front of them, shielding you from their fearful gaze. “We- we misunderstood your signs, Lord Apollo!” called the priest, who seemed to be the most courageous of all. Or maybe, he thought being a priest of his would earn him a forgiving touch. “Please forgive us!”

Apollo laughed a cruel laugh that made a shiver run down your spine. It was a horrible sound, his melodic voice twisted into something so utterly terrifying yet still pleasing to the ear in the most self-destructive of ways. "I sent you signs. I gave you commands. I testified before you. But your greed and your ignorance were too strong."

His gaze cut through their frantic apologies like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. "My Lord Apollo,” one elder managed to utter, “we didn't know she was dear to you! We never would have-" Apollo tilted his head, slow and almost curious, before stepping closer- so close the man choked on his words and collapsed to the ground. You flinched when the dull thud echoed around the room, as did his fellow elders, but none made a move to help him.

Apollo stretched out a hand, and a golden flame flickered to life in his palm- beautiful, deadly. He let it hover there as he walked, a silent threat, the fire casting jagged shadows across their terrified faces. "Ah, now you kneel. Now you grovel. I wonder, did she do the same? When you dragged her to this altar, did she beg?" The lot of them averted their faces, shieding themselves from his barely contained fury, as if that would protect them. "You look at me with fear in your eyes,” he said in an almost mocking tone, though it was humorless and cold. “Why? Is this not what you wanted? A sign from your god?"

Apollo stopped his paces to look around, his eyes scanning their cowering figures. He began circling the elders like a lion playing with dying prey, the faint trace of a smile curling his mouth, but there was no warmth in it- only cruelty, only fury barely held in check. "Look at you. Pathetic. Crawling to your knees like insects the moment your prey turns into a lion. I should let the sun forget this place. Let your crops wither. Let your rivers dry. Let the world never remember your name. Do you know how many temples l've watched crumble? How many cities l've watched rot? One would mean nothing to me. And yet, even now, even as you tremble... you don't understand the danger you are in."

One of the elders caught your eye, his gaze mad with fear. Probably mirroring your own just moments prior when he had called for your execution. “ἱκέτις!” (Spoken hiketis, translated to the one we beg) he called pleadingly, “we beg you- soften his heart, spare us!”

Apollo’s gaze snapped to the elder and he stepped forward. The man flinched and let out a short whimper. “You dare speak to her?” Apollos voice was a low snarl. “You? Who pressed a blade to her throat and called it devotion?” He leaned down, his voice softening to something far more dangerous. “Direct another word at her, make her shed another tear for you, I will turn your fields into ash myself. You are not fit to speak her name, let alone defile my alter with her blood. She is worth more than all of you combined. The sound of her breath matters more than your entire village. When she cried, I heard her. When she bled, I felt it. When she whispered my name, I came."

The priest sobbed into his own, knotted hands, not daring to direct his gaze at his god. “We only wanted to restore balance! We thought a sacrifice-”

But Apollo cut him off with a snarl. “A sacrifice? Tell me, when your harvest failed, did you cut your own throat? Did you offer your life? No? How strange." Hate was laced into every tone of his voice as he rose and slowly walked back up the steps, his gaze still firmly locked on them. "I could make your bones glow with fire. Turn you into torches to light my way. Shall I teach you what true suffering is? Shall I let you taste what you so eagerly prepared for her? Perhaps I should deliver you to my sister, let the beasts have you. Let the wolves rip the flesh from your bones while the crows pluck at your eyes."

“Please!” elder Xanthos cried in utter desperation, tears streaming down his webbed cheeks. “Mercy!”

But the plea only elicited a cold laugh from your god. "You beg me for mercy with the same mouth that condemned her? I will not be merciful. Not for this."

Apollo lifted his hand, and fire bloomed in his palm- not wild and chaotic, but controlled, precise, as if each flicker of flame carried the weight of his will. The golden light swelled, casting jagged shadows as the elders screamed, their bodies consumed in an instant. He didn’t turn to watch them burn. Instead, he stepped in front of you, his broad frame blocking the sight of their writhing silhouettes. The glow of the flames haloed around him, but not a trace of heat reached your skin. His hand hovered just above your cheek, trembling with the remnants of his fury, yet when he finally touched you, his fingers were impossibly gentle.

You were shaking all over, thoughts racing, eyes squeezed shut, as you wished you could drown out the sounds of their fiery deaths. Alas, the glow subsided, and when you threw a cautious look over Apollo’s shoulder, you saw they had been reduced to ash. “Shh,” he said, but despite the calming sound, when you looked up at him, his eyes were still ablaze with fury. His soft lips pressed a kiss onto your temple before he moved towards the door- fast, determined. But you couldn't let him.

Despite the weakness in your knees, you managed to catch up to him before he reached the entrance gates. Before them, the village people had lowered themselves onto their knees, witnesses to their elders destruction and fearfully awaiting their fate. But you couldn't have that- in spite of the pain they had caused you, they were still your people. You knew you should have felt anger, but it had subsided and given way to pity. So you stepped before Apollo, clutching the remaining fabric of your dress over your chest in an attempt to retain some dignity.

Your heart skipped a beat when you looked into his eyes- brimming with fury, with godly wrath. You had never seen him like this- only ever experienced him as a gentle lover, his soft touches and teasing smiles, his kind reassurances and his hand holding yours as he made you feel better than any mortal man ever could have. Never like this. You almost didn't recognize him. Apollo looked deadly. Scary, even to you. Your breath constricted in your throat, but you forced the words out. “Please, Apollo,” you pleaded, voice breaking. “don't hurt them. I beg you. Haven't they suffered enough?"

He simply stared at you, as if he couldn't believe the words had left your mouth. Part of you didn't either. His voice was sharp when he spoke, and you suppressed a shudder. “They cheered as they dragged you to the altar. They watched you bleed. And you ask for their lives?" His voice had risen to a harsh snarl and when he reached out for you, you flinched. You couldn't help it, it was a natural mortal instinct, this close to unshielded divinity.

But his brows furrowed at your action, and when he spoke, his voice was hollow, his gaze devastated. “Are you afraid of me?” His eyes flickered over your expression, saw right through you, and you found yourself unable to hide your true feelings from him. Drawing a shaky breath, you hesitantly glanced up at him. "I saw what you did to them... I've never seen you like that." Your voice was so small it was barely audible, but he, of course, could make out the words, and they seemed to hit him like a brick wall.

Taking a step back, his eyes darkened with grief. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the remnants of his wrath still simmering beneath his golden skin like embers refusing to die. "I would set the world on fire for you. Do you not understand that?"

“I know,” you said, voice shaking, and in your desperation, you fell to your knees before him, clutching the torn fabric of your dress to your chest, words tumbling from your mouth in frantic, broken pleas. “Please, Apollo, let them go. I can't bear this.”

This village, these people, were all you had ever known, all you had loved. Even though they hadn't lifted a finger to help you, had cheered your public humiliation, you could not be responsible for their deaths- it would forever haunt you. The elders dying you were okay with, they were a corrupt lot of old men who'd salvitated at the sight of your ripped dress and ordered your death despite their own greed. But in your eyes, the villagers were innocent- not in his, though.

Apollo watched you, stricken, his expression caught somewhere between rage and devastation. His hands- hands that had held you like you were something holy- curled into trembling fists at his sides. He knelt before you slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something fragile and wild. The god who had just brought such lethal destruction now looked terrified to so much as breathe wrong in your presence. But there was a terrible, aching violence in the way he shook, his divinity still thrumming through the air like a storm that hadn’t passed. “Don’t,” he rasped, voice raw, stepping toward you. When you flinched, a sound escaped him - something wounded, something desperate. “Don’t look at me like that.”

When you looked up, you were shocked to find tears brimming in his eyes, drops of gold. You hadn't known gods could cry. But in spite of his grief, his rage was still palpable and his voice dripped with venom when his gaze flickered over the kneeling townspeople. “They applauded your suffering. They deserve to choke on their guilt.”

“You're better than this!” you sobbed, reaching out to take his hands.

At first, they were stiff in yours, before his fingers interlaced with yours and he tilted his head at you, his rage somewhat taken over by an intense sadness. “No,” he said, voice faltering, “You are better. I am a god. I am not kind.” His rage hadn’t faded- not fully. It lingered just beneath his skin, a seething thing barely leashed. But it was the sight of you bowing to him, begging like a supplicant, that finally broke him. “Stand up,” he whispered, voice fractured. “You don’t kneel for me. Not you.”

“You are kind,” you disagreed with him, giving into his pull and letting him lift you to your feet, your legs barely carrying your weight. “You are to me.”

Slowly, as if every touch could set you off, Apollo lowered his head and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to your head. Beneath your fingertips, you could feel his rage subsiding slowly. He let out a shaky breath against your hair and you leaned your head against him, exhaustion settling on every single one of your bones. “Please,” you whispered, knowing you almost had him. “Can we just go?” You swallowed heavily. “Just… anywhere?”

“Ἀγαπητή," (Agapētē = Beloved) he sighed, and some of the tension seemed to seep out of him, the flickering blaze in his eyes calming. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, and you stiffened as his tone turned into that of a desperate beggar. “Don't fear me, my love, don't flinch away from my touch.”

“I don't,” you breathed against him. He was stabilizing your whole body weight by now, but he didn't seem to mind. His arms only tightened around your waist. “I could never.”

It was all too much- the sensations of the day, the lingering heat, the gruesome sight of the elders burning, and now hundreds of eyes boring into you as Apollo held you gently, so unlike the way he'd threatened their lives. You were the only thing that could calm a storm like this, like him. “I love you,” was the last thing you managed to whisper before exhaustion overtook you and sleep pressed down your eyelids. He must have caught you when you slumped against him, because you felt like you were flying and heard his voice in your ear:

“I'm taking you home, sunshine.”

buggymonsteer

Jun 27

kiarou

天下【To Rule All Under Heaven】

朕為始皇帝。後世以計數，二世三世至於萬世。 "I shall be the First Emperor. The generations that follow shall be numbered Second, Third, and so on through ten thousand generations." 受命於天，既壽永昌 "Having received the Mandate of Heaven, may there be longevity and prosperity." - 秦始皇 QinShiHuang ~221BC

In the distant past, all lived under Heaven (天下), united under the great Sovereigns. But the world descended into five centuries of decline and chaos, and the realm of 天下 fractured into seven warring kingdoms. From this crucible emerged the western Kingdom of Qin. Forged by barbarian invasions from the west and enemy kingdoms to the east, the once-backwater land of Qin became a centralized martial state, harnessing the advancements of civilization in the form of crossbows and combining them with the horse traditions of the steppe barbarians. Thus, the state of Qin began its conquest, starting with the Kingdom of Han in 230 BC.

The King of Qin, born Ying Zheng, was trained under the harsh discipline of Legalist philosophy and guided by the merit-seeking reforms of Lü Buwei (呂不韋). When Ying Zheng took the throne, his conquest subdued the Han Kingdom, followed quickly by Zhao, Wei, Chu, Yan, and finally Qi. By 221 BC, at 38 years of age, Ying Zheng ascended the ancient mountain of Taishan, where generations before had gone to commune with Heaven. There, he performed the rites of Fengshan and proclaimed a covenant with Heaven, whereby justice, wisdom, and peace throughout this new Empire of Qin would be rewarded through the unification of all under Heaven. This new dynasty was marked by the symbol of the tiger and embodied by the element of water. The Qin kingdom, having previously collected all Nine Ancestral Cauldrons (九鼎), carved this covenant into a seal from the mythical jade pieces of the Three Sovereigns (三皇) and Five Rulers (五帝). Here, Ying Zheng shed his name as a mere king (王) and combined the names of the ancient sovereigns into the new title: Emperor (皇帝), taking the name Qin ShiHuang (秦始皇帝), the First Emperor of Qin.

China (Qin) would no longer be a collection of chaotic and competing kingdoms. Qin ShiHuang centralized the structure across the land, removing borders between the kingdoms and connecting them through standardized roads, weights, measures, coinage, and written language. He carved new infrastructure projects through rivers, creating a connective tissue of canals and waterways that united lands which could not be connected by roads alone. And while Qin Shi Huang broke down the internal borders of the kingdoms, he established new ones along the frontiers in a network of walls and outlooks that would eventually become the Great Wall.

But the intensity and focus with which Qin Shi Huang stitched together his new empire became the very weight that would so quickly tear it apart. In his pursuit of immortality, Qin Shi Huang died in 210 BC at the mere age of 49. In his wake remained an unforgiving system of Legalism, which demanded absolute obedience and dedication, and those who failed to meet its standards were subjected to severe punishment. Several rebellions ignited in response to forced labor, excessively strict laws and punishments, and harsh taxation. Within a mere fifteen years, the grand unification project of China fractured once again, and all under Heaven was plunged back into violence and chaos.

A dynasty may rise and fall just as the river swells and recedes, carving valleys where none existed before. Tigers who once ruled the lowlands may one day disappear, and ancient cauldrons, once so precious, may vanish into legend. Even the grandest armies of one hundred thousand may one day crumble, for these are the things of the earth that come and go. But the dream of Heaven that was lifted that day upon Mount Taishan endures forever. And for the next 2000 years of Chinese Civilization, the path carved by Qin ShiHuang was developed and followed.

The example of the First Emperor's dynasty was clear: as quickly as Heaven can grant its blessings, they can just as swiftly be taken away. To rule Tianxia was never about power, class, wealth, or lineage; it was to bear the weight of Heaven itself, and anyone willing to carry that Mandate can unite the realm. The title of Emperor would be grasped by peasants, warriors, kings, beggars, men and women alike. Just as the timeless words engraved upon that ancient seal once said:

受命於天，既壽永昌 "Having received the Mandate of Heaven, may there be longevity and prosperity."

Sources: Records of the Grand Historian; Sima Qian The First Emperor of China; Jonathan Clements To Rule All Under Heaven; Andrew Meyer

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