You wake. Your skin glows, your light shining upon the walls of our bedroom. You illuminate the room. The white curtains billow in the nighttime air seeping in through each crevice, the draft lifting goosebumps off of my skin.
Luna is watching closely. She, big and bright, kisses your nose. She smiles at you, her maternal glow cannot be deterred.
Apollo sits on a bench some miles away. He waits to rise, to pat your shoulder and tell you how proud of you he is.
Throughout time, Luna and Apollo have never touched. How interesting it is that before me I see the son of Luna and Apollo, born of sawdust and passion. Your heart is sealed in an envelope, destined to be handed to me.
Two who have never touched produced a man so bright, yet a man so peaceful.
Something is wrong.
I know that your mother bends the tides. But... the tides do not bend to you; you bend to the tides.
I've seen your father wakes farmers and fishermen, bidding them to begin their day. You, however, jostle your victims awake; your victims scream before they press their heads to their pillows, reminding themselves that it was only a bad dream.
I realize that when Luna and Apollo die, we will be the next star-crossed lovers.
Forgive me.