I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Soundtrack: I Stand Corrected by Vampire Weekend
Apollo
He is bored. Apollo is never bored.
There is always something for the god to participate in. His steeds need tending to, the down-below needs to be trifled with, there are parties to attend and prayers to adhere to.
He sighs dramatically. Most days he lolls beneath laurel trees, dreaming of her.
Another her. How many have there been now? He tries not to think about it. Women and nymphs are so very troublesome. It is slightly ironic how the most handsome god is so unlucky in love. Apollo tries to sleep. He closes his eyes, but he is all too well aware of the laurels above him.
Lying on the grass he looks up at them. They are green and in full bloom. The sound of the wind blowing through the leaves reminds him of the way the winds tousled her soft hair. He clamps his eyes shut and wills the memory to go away.
Unlucky... so unlucky.
Suddenly there is a dark spot of ink spreading across the horizon. Could it be? He shades his eyes against the burning sun. The image spreads and Apollo feels his heart leap. His mouth becomes dry.
She's returned.
With renewed confidence he stands up, ready to greet the maiden. But it is not her. There is someone else approaching. He falls back down onto the long grass and throws his arm over his eyes.
"Go away!" he says, annoyed. Why can't they leave him alone to wallow in his self-pity?
He can hear the wings on Hermes shoes flapping rudely above him. "Apollo," he is heaving. Hermes had to fly a long way to reach him. He also detects a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Zeus needs you. Oracles need answering."
"Tell Zeus to do it himself." He says this partly to frighten Hermes. In this case, he knows that the messenger would be killed if Zeus were to receive such an unappealing response.
He spreads his fingers so he can see the messenger god. Hermes' face is twisted in anger and frustration. "Are you still moping over that nymph. What was her name? Dinah?"
"Daphne." He says it and he wheezes. It takes some effort to push the name past his lips. "Her name was Daphne."
And then as though it were never there, the pain leaves him. And he feels lighter once more; not weighted down by useless pining.
He laughs lightly and rubs his eyes. "Daphne."
