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[apollinares.livejournal.com]

There is dust on his face, in his eyes, in his hair, on his clothing.

(He's spent the past months roaming.

I will remember and not be unmindful of Apollo who shoots afar.

No destination in mind, no end in sight.

As he goes through the house of Zeus, the gods tremble before him and all spring up from their seats when he draws near, as he bends his bright bow.

He just had to go.

But Leto alone stays by the side of Zeus who delights in thunder; and then she unstrings his bow, and closes his quiver, and takes his archery from his strong shoulders in her hands and hangs them on a golden peg against a pillar of his father's house.)
 

He hasn't been here in what feels like an age.

He doesn't stay inside (he never stays), instead taking the quickest route out the back door, towards the lake.

(He needs the space.)

(He's missed it.)
 

[ tiny tag: apollo ]

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[tragic_mask]

There's a good dose of irony in her voice as she scans his dusty face.

"Yes, certainly looks like it."

[apollinares.livejournal.com]

He reaches up to brush his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dust.

A little sheepishly: "Haven't gotten the chance to clean up yet."

[tragic_mask]

"Where have you collected all that dust, exactly?"

[apollinares.livejournal.com]

"Many places," he says.

"Any place that there is dust to be collected."

[tragic_mask]

"You'd have to stay there for a while, to collect all that," she says, flicking a speck of dust from the cloth on his arm.