He knew it in that instant. This wasn’t what the great poets wrote about. It definitely wasn’t the insane passion that had driven Paris to give up the luxury of their father’s home to live in squalor with Davyn.
It wasn’t the friendship he had with Xyn.
And perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps it was all the cursed grandson of Apollo deserved or could hope for.
Either way, it was a necessity that he no longer had to worry over.
You should be relieved.
Instead, what he felt was more akin to a stomach illness. And he had a peculiar urge to run to Xyn and hide there.
But that was ridiculous. So what if he was settling? At least he had someone who would feed him. He should be grateful beyond measure. It wasn’t like women were lining up to offer themselves to him.
Like they’d done for Paris and his other brothers.
No one wants you. They never have.
Not wanting to think about that, Urian cleared his throat. “I should go and let my solren know. He’ll need time to prepare our wedding celebration.”
“When are you thinking we should marry?”
“We’re Apollites. Sooner rather than later, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“A fortnight hence, then?”
Xanthia choked. “You’re serious?”
“I’m already quite old for marriage, and your daughter will be nearing a marriageable age before much longer. As the granddaughter of my father, she’ll have a far greater standing in our community the longer we’re married at the time you begin seeking husbands for her.”
“I can’t argue with any of that.” She smiled. “Very well. A fortnight hence.”
Kissing her, Urian climbed from the tub and dressed. Then he went to Apollymi first to tell her of his coming marriage.
Urian hesitated outside her dark garden. Especially since he could hear her light sobs through the doors. He hated whenever she sat alone at her mirror, with her small black pillow in her lap, weeping for her son she could never hold.
He ached for her lonely pain. The goddess of destruction wasn’t without a deep-seated misery that the world had carved into her heart. No one should hurt this much. Especially not alone.
Not even a goddess.
She didn’t deserve what had been done to her. Not once, but twice. They had taken everything from her. Both her sons—Monakribos and Apostolos. And the only man she’d ever loved. Kissare.
They had duped her into believing Archon was Kissare reincarnated. A cruel, cruel prank that had crushed her to the core of her being once she learned that it had only been a power play made by Archon so that he could have authority at her expense.
As alone as he felt, it was nothing compared to Apollymi’s pain. Her betrayal.
For all she’d given to the world, she truly had nothing and no one.
Not even the Daimons and Apollites she’d saved gave her her due. They quickly forgot the debt they owed this great lady who had spared them the worst fate imaginable. But for her, none of them would be alive now. Or have any hope for the future.
How soon people forgot the kindnesses shown to them, no matter how great they were or the sacrifices made. What they owed to another. Yet they never let go of any grudge, no matter how petty. Nor any wrong ever done them, no matter how inadvertently.
“Akra?” he called lightly through the doors.
She drew a ragged breath and instantly composed herself so that he wouldn’t see her misery.
Yet he knew. He always saw what she kept hidden. That was his gift.
