Page 4

The next day, like the first, I found Dax in the mortal courtyard. This time, although there were others nearby, he sat alone, leaning forward on his bench, writing on a parchment in furious concentration. When he noticed my approach, he rolled the parchment up like a secret to be kept.

“My lord,” he greeted.

“Trying your hand at poetry?” I asked.

“Perhaps.” He tucked the parchment behind him, clearly not ready to share it yet.

I looked forward to when he did. “Would you like to experience one of my other tenets today?” I held out my hand, and he accepted it with no tremble or hesitation today.

“Melitta!” Dax called to a young woman lounging in the grass. “Would you return my parchment to my rooms for me when you get the chance?”

“Certainly,” she said, and then sat up when she saw me and spoke with reverence. “My lord.”

I bowed my head in thanks and led Dax from the courtyard for today’s excursion. We were not going quite as far as yesterday, for there would be no trek to the earth below.

The home of the gods had many different halls, quarters, and open courtyards for our dalliances of choice. The largest of our music halls could host dozens, which was where I took Dax now. I saw the wonder on his face when he realized that, despite there being several groups of revelers, from singers to musicians to those dancing, no sound traveled to where we stood at the entrance.

“Come,” I said, taking his hand again and keeping it this time, cool in mine and holding firm. “You will understand as we walk.”

We went left toward a quartet of string instruments. The music they played could only be heard once we walked close enough to the edge of those gathered to enjoy their song. The entirety of the hall was set up this way, so that performers could be as loud and varied as they pleased and never clash with their neighbors.

Music was one of my domains, so my presence did not draw much attention here, for whether muse, mortal, or otherwise, the frequenters of this hall were used to my presence. We listened for a while, and then I led Dax to the other side to hear a chorus of singers. Then we circled to the next group, where two talented flute players were performing a duet. Another was composed of strings, flutes, and percussion and had the largest gathering of dancers, though merrymakers danced in every corner of this hall.

Lastly, I led Dax to an unoccupied spot with a collection of waiting instruments.

“Tell me, are there any of these you have an inclination toward?” I asked.

“Oh, um… I suppose I am fair enough on the pan flute. Would you like me to play something for you?” He retrieved one and sat on one of the area’s stools.

“If you are not one who succumbs to stage fright,” I teased.

His laugh, as always, was lovely to my ears. “Having been trained to become a courtesan, my lord, that would be unacceptable.” He puckered his plump lips and began to blow. It came as no surprise that his chosen song was the First Delphic Hymn, one written in praise to me. I would have thought it flattery if not for the impishness in his eyes, the proof that he too was teasing.

I summoned my lyre, first of its kind and invented by Hermes. He gifted it to me in exchange for the cattle he’d already stolen from me on the day he was born, the knave. He often stole the lyre back, like a game between us, but either of us could summon it and play it with near equal talent. Naturally, while Hermes had created it, I was the superior musician, something even he would never deny.

The first strums of my hymn to accompany Dax made his eyes widen and his breath stutter upon the flute. He collected himself and continued, though he watched me fervently, as I sat upon a stool beside him and together, we played.

Although made from the shell of a tortoise, the lyre had been painted with liquified gold and gleamed brilliantly. It remained to this day my favorite of instrumental sounds, and yet, alongside the pan flute was my favorite accompaniment for it. Dax could not have known that, for it was not part of any stories passed among mortals. We were naturally harmonious, Dax and I, like the woven threads of fate.

He paused in his playing and said, “I don’t suppose I could have the great blessing of also hearing the god Apollo sing?”

“I do enjoy giving those who are worthy my blessing,” I answered. Without ceasing my own playing, I added my voice to the next verse, and as Dax listened, he continued on his flute, even more fixated on me.

It struck me quite pleasantly that it was not worship in his eyes but a very mortal want.

My singing added to our impromptu performance brought a few of the nearby revelers to listen, and they applauded when we finished.

“Another!” a member of the audience called.

“Perhaps something new,” I said. And then asked of Dax, “Can you follow an unknown song, courtesan?”

Dax smiled at the tender ribbing, but looked panicked when I began to compose on the spot, strumming slow enough at first for him to join in once he caught the melody. He did. He mimicked my notes and even harmonized, following my lead, but as I added tempo and key changes and other complex shifts he couldn’t predict, he stumbled.

His laughter was a better sound to my ears, and our audience laughed with him.

“I am afraid I cannot keep up with the patron god of music,” Dax said.

I brought my composition to a close at that. Again, the audience applauded, but my attention was on Dax. “You lasted longer than most might have. But there are times when music should be but a backdrop to other pursuits.”

I flung my lyre into the air, and instead of thudding to the ground, it floated, beginning to play a lively tune on its own. So too did Dax’s pan flute, leaping from his fingers, and flute and lyre danced in the air as they played, the same as we were about to.

I sprang up to take Dax’s hand and pulled him from his stool. Dance we did. We twirled and leapt and spun one another as the music dictated, sometimes separately, sometimes with hands clasped, sometimes with arms about each other’s waists to lead one another in a particular set of motions. It was all unrehearsed and yet so naturally symbiotic, so much so that our fellow revelers were inclined to watch rather than join us as the music reached a crescendo, and then shifted into a new song. A softer, slower song that allowed me to draw Dax close.

Our audience knew then to leave us. We danced, leisurely now, entwined together, with all sound outside our cocoon muted, leaving only the self-playing instruments hovering above us. Even with that godly trick, Dax looked at me within our embrace—down at me since he was taller—with a strength in his gaze, no longer afraid or too amazed to hold me tight. He raised one of my hands with his own, so they held suspended, palm against palm, and slowly laced our fingers, sending a shiver through me.

“You ask to know each other as men, but to know you, Apollo, is to know the god in you too. Lest you think men capable of magical instruments and disguises for treks to the earth.” Dax grinned. He didn’t mean it cruelly, as if I was incapable of humanity, only that my godhood was as intrinsic as my domains.

Dax wasn’t only taller but broader and more visibly muscled than this world-weary god, one who’d started my existence mortal and small and never desired to be as hulking as some of my fellows. Dax was contrastingly solid and strong, yet still a fragile, precious thing that I feared I might break. It had been a very long time since I held a mortal not in intimate coupling, the last time being…

When I held Hyacinth as he died.

“Apollo? You look sad,” Dax said softly, slowing our swaying and drawing the hand he held between us. He reached with his other hand to touch my cheek. I did not think I had shed a tear, but I felt its wetness when he brushed it away. His dark brown eyes were two beautiful voids.

“Dax, have you ever felt the kind of love you so admire of your patron goddess?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted. “I have known great love in my life, from the parents I lost, to many kind and encouraging mentors, to dear friends, like Aikos, who I consider kin. But I have never felt the soul-shattering love worthy of an epic poem. I know I have not because I have questioned it, and if one has to question it, one has not loved.”

How wise for one so young. “I can assure you that you do know when you love, because with that enlightenment, that completeness, also comes the greatest fear you have ever known, because you realize that to lose it would unmake you.”

I watched the bulb of his throat bob as he swallowed. “You experienced that more than once,” he said.

“Many times now, and each time, it has further unmade me. So much so that I fear not enough of me is left to try again. I want to. I so want to try despite my fears and to know once more that great tenet of Aphrodite without also knowing its loss.”

“I am so sorry you have known those losses, Apollo,” Dax whispered, “but it only takes one right time to be worthy of an epic.”

He did not remove his hand from my cheek, but shifted it to touch more of me, until his large palm cupped the curve of my jaw. The music had stopped, the instruments lowering and then landing with a faint clatter, as my mind was too muddled to maintain the trick amidst such utter entrancement with Dax’s daring.

I had said I wanted to know each other as men, and he was treating me like one. He leaned closer with that same want in his eyes and, as if having become an avatar of Hermes, meant to steal something from me no one ever had.

A kiss.

A second tear spilled down my cheek as I allowed Dax to press his lips to mine. I feared I began to clutch his clasped hand too tightly, to grip his waist too tightly too, tangling fingers into his tunic. I was almost always warm and sometimes burned too hot. Dax was cool, like a night breeze at the commencement of sunset. I fought to not scorch him as my temperature rose with the gentle tease of his tongue between my lips, flicking lightly, lightly, lightly, so that I whimpered at the plunge he finally gifted me.

A courtesan through and through, for with only a kiss, he made a god whine.

“I hope I have not caused offense, my lord Apollo,” Dax whispered upon my dampened lips.

I knew I burned quite hot indeed when I saw him watch my tears steam away, but it was not so hot that he recoiled. “None at all. Shall we play a bit more music together, young Dax?”

I expected the usual disappointment at my sluggish pacing of our courtship, but he smiled and kissed our clasped fingers before releasing me. He once again retrieved the pan flute. “Perhaps you will allow me to try keeping up with your new composition again. It was lovely.”

“Thank you. And perhaps.” I retrieved my instrument, but rather than sit on a stool again to play, I held it toward Dax. “Or perhaps you would like to try it on the lyre this time.”

Dax looked more flushed than at the onset of our kiss. I might want our courtship to mostly be as equals, but being a god, I did still enjoy causing the occasional wonderment. He accepted my offer and, in turn, handed me the flute.

As came as no surprise, Dax proved just as talented with his fingers as he was his lips.