For so long he had associated love with words that he had felt distant and separate from himself, words that he had inspired in Mortals who in turn had filtered them through their own experiences, from the pangs of misunderstandings to the excruciating pain of rejection.
For so long love was all extreme gestures and violence, with everything that his mind inevitably ends up burying and forgetting, that he had ended up realizing only at the end of their world that it was not entirely like that.
Love is also a quiet stream that flows in a forest, so delicate that it does not even move the stones that form its bank. Love is a delicate feeling like the flutter of Hermes' wings under his breath before he wakes, the touch of hands that seek his face.
A Sun and His Flower
