phaesporia:
Just trust me, the words seem to come to Artemis when they fail Apollo. We’ll get past this, just trust me. If only things were so simple. Regrets were so unbecoming of age-old gods; even with their ever-lasting memories, one would think the pain would eventually fade away, but it never did.
His fingertips are silver when he pulls them away jerkily, forcing his arms apart. His new wounds ache alongside his old ones; both feel equally fresh as they run with blood and emotion. His elbows stay tucked against his side and exposing his chest feels wrong, he doesn’t feel safe; Apollo approaches him as if he’s a wounded bird and Artemis has no sweet song to encourage his brother closer. He is caged, after all, with only ruffled feathers and broken wings to offer those sweet golden eyes.
You cannot help, Artemis wants to say. Spite gnaws at his tongue and cheek, urging him to speak, to spurn, to do what you are ever so good at. He does not deserve the soft hands that touch his skin and make him flinch. He does not deserve the heartbroken gaze that makes his own tears return. Why is it that they must fear each other now? Why is it that they must always do this same sad song and dance?
Artemis closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, muffling it, choking himself with an invisible hand. He does not deserve Apollo’s pity when he was the one that caused all this.
He moves close, in that slow, soft way of his, he is like dust caught in a ray of light, Artemis’ silver spills over his fingers in a way that makes his heart ache. He moves away again, fetching medical supplies, some ointment he’s made himself that smells strongly of herbs, and strips of gauze. Some of which he uses to clean away ichor.
Every laceration is coated thinly in ointment, and then bandaged tenderly, with hands that have known hundreds of years of their craft.
“There...” he whispers, lips curling into a small smile. “Good as new...” his hands fall away slowly once more.
“What can I do...” he murmurs softly then. “To comfort you?”
