Chapter Text
In all universes, humans have built from the ground upwards using nought but what was given to them to shape the world to their own needs; good or bad as that may be.
In this particular universe, the foundation of law in religion held no stories of winged messengers, nor a tale of earthly beings building a tower to heaven’s realm – these stories were unnecessary; in this world, human beings have been blessed with the gift of natural flight.
This, of course, creates quite a few distinctions between their world and our own – high-rise buildings with no stairs and doors leading in from the outer building on the hundredth floor, a subtle, but not at first obvious, difference in general leg strength, and strict laws regarding wing responsibility and usage.
Immigration laws are regularly broken by free-spirited flyers; an Olympics in the sky – air-based warfare sometimes taking on a new meaning and humans only being allowed to ‘release’ in specified areas (launch pads; small, government-operated facilities that allow busy people to stretch their wings in parks, cities, and other vastly populated areas in the name of preventing accidents. Humans are allowed to release their wings in designated rural areas and their own land, providing it’s large enough to withstand the span of human wings.)
Of course, law is still in place. And where law exists, so must those who uphold and enforce laws.
This, dear friends, is where our story begins.
Klavier Gavin detested wings.
Specifically, he despised the general public for their magnificent blessing of fully-functioning, athletic, ever-stretching wings and for the gift of being able to fly – to experience the world at such a view beyond that of the seat inside a huge metal bird; yes, this is what he envied most of all.
It wasn’t anything extraordinary or extravagant – not to the average person, at least, but to Klavier – Gott, there was nothing else he could have wished for with more desperation than this. Other than one other alternative.
Klavier wished that all of this wing business did not exist – then he would have no qualms, he preferred to tell himself, angling his view as he glared at an otherwise societally-deemed perfect body through full-length mirrors that fit into the doors of his walk-in wardrobe.
With a huff, he tried harder to see the point where his right wing would protrude from. Twisting and turning in the face of the mirror had no effect, and Klavier quickly became frustrated, letting out a noise mixed between a whinge and a groan – accidentally releasing all tensions in his body in his fit of annoyance, and letting his one wing make a much-unwanted and certainly uninvited appearance.
His left wing flopped out lazily as if it were a dog’s tongue, and caused Klavier to lose his balance, somehow tumbling into the wall with about as much grace as a racoon delving through the bins on a Sunday evening.
To burn marks into his skin with his eyes, somehow hoping that his right wing would magically appear, was not an uncommon occurrence for Klavier – actually seeing the left wing, however, was not an experience that he was used to.
In the moments when he absolutely had to stretch out his wing, he did so in complete privacy, making sure that there were no mirrors or windows for Klavier to catch his own reflection in – the basement was usually perfect for this. It was always a quick, however emotionally painful, event – and it usually ended with Klavier resting alone in a shitty bar with a glass of whiskey on the rocks in his hand and his fringe down, shielding his face from any paparazzi through the window.
In seeing the thing now, he realised just why he had begun the trend of unsheathing his wing in the darkness, and that he had been completely right to shield himself from looking at it.
The ugly, sallow wing was barely half the size of what it should be to carry him; what it would be, if he was able to use it. Naturally golden-brown feathers look musty like moth wings. The fluff of the feathers is not healthily spread; instead, pieces stick together in odd places and feathers are falling off here and there for being out for the first time in about a month.
The thing stunk – something of a mix between mothballs and human body oils; Klavier hadn’t been able to wash it for a while.
In short, the wing looked hardly like a wing at all – it drooped towards the ground as if it wished to lie there, and Klavier might have let it, if he could.
Klavier could feel his back hunch down a little bit; unused to the sensation of the extra weight to carry. His face even looked pitiful when he saw it in the reflection of the mirror – the way his eyebrows scrunched together, his lips falling into a lopsided pout and shaking, if you looked close enough. The signs were there again.
These are not good thoughts to be having before a trial, Klavier thought to himself, gathering his strength to re-sheathe the damned thing where it should have been – away from sight – and picking out his most expensive work clothing to make him feel better instead of spending a while choosing things out like he usually did.
Purposefully, he cleared away the horrific mess of feathers lying in a pile on his bedroom floor – Gott, it looked like a pigeon had died in here.
The courtroom was in complete silence, filled with tension so thick it almost made it difficult to breathe. Herr Forehead stood firmly behind the defence’s bench, using all of his five-foot-five-inches, index finger placed on forehead in absolute concentration.
You could almost smell the sweat dripping from the witness, Ms. Narpha Smile, as Herr Forehead mentally picked apart her testimony and stared so intently at her face that you may have believed him if he told you that the clues to the case were written in small script on the slight mascara stain of her left cheek.
Klavier’s fists were clenched against the edge of the prosecution’s bench – previous marks could be seen where prosecutors had thumped, chewed at, and pulled off parts of the wood (he had no doubt that all were caused by going against an attorney from the Wright Anything Agency), calling out to him to leave his mark – nobody would have blamed him, but still he refrained, eye twitching with impatience as he waited with bated breath for Herr Forehead to voice whatever thoughts were swimming about beyond that large forehead of his.
Yesterday’s session had been a nail-biter. Herr Forehead had cleared almost all suspicion of the defendant, Mr. Plumb Berr, but had yet to establish a clear motive for his indictee, who was now settled in the witness’ stand, gripping her purse for dear life.
“What we have found out from our investigation of the pool room and Ms. Smile’s apartment, she could indeed have committed the murder in having access to the security tape’s records and the spare key to the leisure centre’s front gate. This in itself does not prove a motive, though. The motive is easy to understand, once we think about the case from a different angle.”
Herr Forehead smiled through the intensity of his words, arms crossed over his chest and shoulders pushed back with confidence – in himself, or the truth, Klavier could not decide which.
No matter whether the man was determined, excited, angry, or calculating, his eyebrows always seemed to be furrowed.
But Herr Forehead in court was different from any other side you’d see of the man – there was something akin to charged electricity within him. He gave life to the whole courtroom; a buzzing energy that was impossible to ignore once you had been drawn in by it.
Maybe it was partially just Klavier’s silly crush, but court Herr Forehead was definitely his favourite; the most endearing – even as he knew he was going to lose, his heart was pounding in exhilaration and challenge.
“Why would she use the swimming pool to commit the murder? There are plenty of other methods that the murderer could have used to rid Miss Windsor of her life. This question is answered when we factor in this piece of evidence.”
A large ‘thunk’ nearly made Klavier jump – seeing and recognising the actual piece of evidence for what it was did make him jump.
“Feather colourant?!” Klavier cried out, slamming his fist against the wall in irritation. What the hell went on in this man’s mind, Klavier was sure he would never be able to figure out, even if he was to tag along with their investigations.
“Not just normal feather colourant. Non-permanent, wash-out feather colourant. Found in the possession of none other than the victim herself. This is the key to the entire case!”
Ms. Smile looked like she was about to strangle either herself or Herr Forehead, but the rest of the court was left in clueless silence.
The judge banged his gavel, interest colouring his features as the gears ticked so obviously in his head and found nothing. Klavier was a little impressed that one could experience this many trials with Herr Wright and his subordinates and still show surprise at events like the one at hand.
“And how, dare I ask, is the colourant related to this trial?”
From somewhere in the back of the gallery, there was a self-satisfied snort that was too familiar to not recognise the owner of. Klavier could imagine Herr Wright sitting in the front row, slouched on a chair with his feet up on the edge of the gallery’s fence, disgusting sandals in full view to the displeasure of the people sitting behind him.
Yes, if it had been Herr Wright versing Klavier in court at this time, he would have been smirking against his will, the sparkle in his eyes as he knew that he was the only one in the courtroom aside from the murderer who had figured out the whole gig.
But Herr Forehead was firm and serious as ever and, even in happiness, the whites of his knuckles were visible from across the courtroom. You could tell by looking at his face that whatever he next said was going to be yelled with complete certainty, even if the next thing he said happened to be him ordering a sub in great detail, the entire court would still be hanging on his every word.
“Miss Windsor is a model. Known worldwide for her naturally pure white wings, she worked for Victoria’s Secret as a day job – this made it incredibly difficult for her to find a deep relationship, as proved by her many accounts on different dating sites.
“She chose to change her appearance in different ways when she met with her lover – this included wearing wigs, specialised make-up, and wing colourant to disguise her most distinguishing feature.
“Her P.A., Ms. Smile, knew all of this, but had fallen for Miss Windsor’s girlfriend and began to stalk her, taking photos and even Miss Mines’ belongings – all found in the witness’ house.” Herr Forehead spread about a dozen items across the defence’s desk, including a stack of photos which were quickly passed to the judge, among other items (a bottle of perfume, some items of jewellery, a hairbrush and other items that would usually be innocent enough, but now somehow seemed tarnished; perverted even, by Herr Forehead’s speech.
“She wanted to show Miss Mines the truth in the only way she knew how, hoping that this would cause a rift in their relationship. Ms. Smile set up the fake photoshoot and pushed Miss Windsor into the pool, unknowing about her lack of swimming ability. The leisure centre’s camera footage became the one thing that Ms. Smile had to hide, at the cost of the person she loved. This murder was not premeditated to be as such, and so establishes Ms. Smile’s motive, and clears Mr. Plum Berr, the owner of the leisure centre, of negligence, or indeed, murder.”
The last sentence rung out in the room for a few seconds or hours, people processing in their heads what exactly had just happened in front of them.
Ms. Smile looked like someone had just stolen her sandwich, and you could see the mania rise over her slowly like running water in a bathtub.
When it filled to the brim, she let out a horrific screech, both hands plastered to her head and legs trembling as if she were about to topple over at any moment.
Almost as if it were a tradition of the courts by now (which it may as well have been), Ms. Smile confessed to her crime with a shamed smile on her face. She was escorted away, much quieter than other criminals they had faced on her own, but the crowd could not be settled – yelling threatening comments and booing so loudly one could hardly hear their own thoughts. After the angry mob had been calmed and dispersed, Herr Forehead began to pack up his case notes in relative silence, only breaking it to Trucy’s impatient hurrying – they had another engagement; it appeared. She tugged at his shirt sleeve only to jump back when he shot her a dangerous look.
Klavier realised that he should probably leave, too, and packed his notes haphazardly in his briefcase, turning on his heavy boot’s heel with a squeak and striding towards the huge oak doors of Courtroom Number Two.
“Hey, Prosecutor Gavin! Wait up!” He turned to the strain of Trucy’s voice, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“No need to be so formal, fräulein. Klavier is fine.” He gave her a polite smile – today was really not a People day; but he couldn’t just leave the girl upset and confused because he had chosen to have a tantrum this morning. Besides, the Rock Star Klavier was nothing if not a people person, and so putting on what was more of a persona today than usually was akin to slipping into a well-worn t-shirt – even if it was sometimes the one thing he wished to throw away the most.
“Klavier,” she corrected, linking her arms behind her back and bobbing on her tippy toes with a childlike grin. “So, a new launch pad opened up in People Park on Monday, and Polly and I were just going to try it out… We were wondering if maybe you’d like to join us.” Her head tilted to the side without really meaning to, and that impressive top hat slipped from her head – she caught it just before it hit the floor and let it dangle at her side; the rim caught between her index finger and thumb, looking back up to Klavier with a curious look in her eyes as if she had been uninterrupted by her choice of clothing.
Ah; wings. I should think that I have had enough of that kind of talk today, he thought to himself.
Klavier’s smile thinned out just a tad; just enough for both Trucy and Herr Forehead (as infuriatingly observant as they were) to notice. He wondered how he was to reply. Maybe he should agree to go with them, and refuse to fly.
A part of him really wanted to see Herr Forehead’s wings – he had often wondered to himself what they would be like. (Klavier had once imagined them to be a deep, rich red-brown colour, angular and thick – and it stuck, leading to many unfortunate and uncomfortable daydreams and night dreams alike.)
The vision only made him want to see them even more, but he knew that he mustn’t – Trucy’s persuasive powers often shifted into the realm of godlike, and he may end up telling them the truth.
Being a celebrity, he was quite the spectacle at one time of many – what with no pictures ever having been taken of Klavier with his wings untucked; there were many rumours. Some bordered on (and crossed) the line of impossibility, and others were surprisingly accurate, as Klavier had researched.
They were still waiting for a reply, he realised. The hand that was not occupied by the suitcase was raised in a ‘stop’ gesture. “My apologies, fräulein, but I must refuse you today. Perhaps some other time, though, ja?” And, with that, he again turned on his heel and left too quickly; enough to raise suspicion, but not enough to reach the doors before any other words were spoken – not that he really heard them. Klavier supposed that he had been very rude, but he was afraid that if he had stayed a second longer, he may have started crying, or worse; agreed to go.
As soon as he got into his car, he had felt the need to sob, but waited until he had safely closed the front door of his house before collapsing onto the hardwood flooring in a pile of heavy clothing and metal jewellery.
Vicious, ugly sobs racked his chest, fat tears falling fast and hitting the floor and his forearms. Klavier was a cry-baby at the best of times, and a blubberer at the worst.
He loosened the too-tight twist of his hair – the thing was quickly giving him a headache – and loose strands fell into the trail of tears on his left cheek, sticking to the gross wetness and tickling his face.
Next to come off were the rings, discarded at the door with heavy clunk noises against the hardwood floor as he shuffled down the hallway towards the lounge’s door. His earrings stayed; his bracelets and necklace did not.
By the time he had reached the door he was barefoot, clothing and accessories dotted down the hallway that he half-heartedly promised himself he would pick up later. His favourite blazer, even, had been discarded along the way – normally Klavier wouldn’t have dreamt of getting a speck of dust on the thing, but he could barely see or think of much but the sharp pounding in his brain and the small amount of processing it took to navigate his house.
He ended up collapsed on the lounge’s cream leather couch with pedicured feet dangling off the left arm and his fingers tapping against the television remote – too tired to lift the thing up in his palm, he let the couch hold it.
Alphabetically, he let his digital collection of Disney movies run for four days, only getting up to drink, excrete, and eat two and a half doughnuts. Klavier at one point recalled his phone, guessing that it had probably gone off about one hundred and two times in his absence from society – but it was still on silent in the pocket of his discarded blazer, and for the life of him, he couldn’t be bothered to get up just to check the thing and be yelled at.
At exactly 9:30 A.M on the fifth day, for the first time he heard something other than the television, the birds outside or his own self-pitiful snivelling, there was a loud rapping at his front door. He ignored it, expecting some kind of dubious charity or insurance seller, but the knock only got louder and more frequent until there were no breaks between knocking and the obnoxious personalised doorbell tone.
Klavier paused Snow White mid-dance and unsteadily got to his feet, barely lifting them from the floor as he moved at a snail’s pace to the main hallway.
“All right; I’m coming, I’m coming.” Klavier spoke at full volume to be heard and the knocking slightly decreased in frequency. He thought about going upstairs to bed and leaving the unknown knocker, but some part of him thought that this annoyance was not going to go away that easily, given that they had probably been knocking for ten minutes already at this point.
He swung the door open without even checking through the peephole to see who it was.
Herr Forehead stood before him, arms crossed over his chest and a determined look in his eye.
Klavier moved to close the door in his face, but a faux leather boot jumped between the frame and the door before he could fully click it shut. He had no strength to resist, having been awake for so long and crying so much, and so let the door fall open again with a half-grimace of displeasure.
It appeared to Klavier that Herr Forehead had never done anything silently in his life – clomping inside the entryway with heavy steps and accidentally slamming the door shut. He still hadn’t said anything, but his body language spoke volumes – the way he leaned around Klavier’s large frame and assessed the need for damage control in the hallway – only then did Klavier remember the mess of his belongings around Herr Forehead’s feet.
He then looked Klavier up and down, clearing his throat and tucking some tiny strands of fallen hair back behind his ear as he thought of what to say.
Herr Forehead sighed pitifully, letting his arms fall to his sides limply and his eyebrows rise from their deep furrow into a slightly less heavy look – Klavier supposed it was concern, but it was hard to tell. Maybe it was just that he didn’t want to let himself believe it was that – it was not good for his heart.
“What the hell is going on, Klavier?” Herr Forehead rarely used Klavier’s first name to address him – in fact, Herr Forehead rarely directly addressed him in general – he was more serious than usual.
Klavier smiled sullenly, waving an arm in no particular direction as he indignantly replied. “What’s going on? I’m relaxing on my own property as I have finished my work – this is a very normal occurrence; Herr Forehead, for those of us that do indeed take days off when we are supposed to. Perhaps you should be asking yourself why it is you have decided to barge into my house and force a staring contest.” His voice was gravelly and off-tone; a product of having not spoken for days and surviving on a very minimal amount of water to quench his thirst.
The man scowled, adopting his usual standoffish pose yet again. “Trucy is worried,” he spoke softly compared to his usual yell; contradicting his body language. “Prosecutor Edgeworth is worried. Your friends are worried. Nobody has seen or been in contact with you since the case five days ago – no magazine has reported you being out and about; no Instagram photos or Tweets have been posted to let anybody know that you’re relaxing at home. You’re still wearing your work trousers, and the rest of your clothes are strewn all over an otherwise pristine hallway. You look like hell; your eyes are puffy and sore and it looks like you haven’t showered in a week. Don’t pretend like this is a relaxing day off work, Klavier.”
There it was again; the drop of the first name. Apollo’s words weighted heavily on the tension in the hallway, and Klavier sighed, blinking blearily a couple of times through the film of exhaustion.
He rolled his shoulders and then stretched, staring Apollo straight in the eye. “And so you have come to my rescue. Thank you for telling me what I already know, but what exactly were you planning to do about my situation once you got here?” Apollo actually smiled wryly at the comment, raising an eyebrow and sidestepping past Klavier to pick his blazer up from the ground – folding it over his forearm. It gave the man a painfully natural image of domesticity somehow, and Klavier had to look away.
“Well, I was kind of hoping to go along with whatever I found, actually. Luckily, you’ve given me an easy starting point – you really need to clean yourself up.”
Jogging up and down the hallway, Apollo collected Klavier’s belongings up and set them in his outstretched arms. He jerked a thumb towards the stairs at the end of the hall, and Klavier lead him upstairs, unsure of what to say to what felt like a dream that he had made up in his head – perhaps a product of all the Disney movies that he had ingested over the past few days; Apollo Justice was his fairy godmother, come to make him beautiful and take him to the ball. His only wish was that Apollo had not just come to be a fairy godmother, but also his prince – a thought he dismissed immediately; not surprised that it had come to fruition in his mind but not any less disgusted with himself.
When they entered Klavier’s plush bedroom, it was his natural reaction to turn his head towards the large backdrop of mirrors and check himself out – quickly to wish that this wasn’t the case.
The first thing he noticed was his hair. The soft strands had become greasy and displaced from lying down for so long, tangled in small disarray on one side.
The bags under his eyes were prominent, his eyebrows set deep and his forehead creased.
His skin looked unhealthy, almost clammy even under the fake tan. He noticed a faint smell of man-sweat emanating from his armpits, and wrinkled his nose in disgust and embarrassment at Apollo seeing him like this.
He dumped the pile of clothing on his bed with great annoyance, and turned to face Apollo, who stood still at the edge of the doorframe, tapping his right foot against the carpet and looking at Klavier expectantly.
“Really?” Klavier tried, but Apollo stayed still.
He set about putting the blazer back onto a hanger and into his walk-in wardrobe begrudgingly, dumping his shirt and socks into the hamper and arranging his jewellery on the vanity in its usual positioning; size order upwards (Apollo raised a questioning eyebrow at this, but said nothing.)
“Good,” Apollo praised once he was finished, turning to firmly grip the handle of the door. “Now you’re going to show me where your bathroom is.” Klavier’s first thought was ‘which bathroom?’, but he decided that he wouldn’t share that thought for fear of Apollo’s definite judgemental snort. He led Apollo to the most reasonable-looking bathroom of three (the one without the Jacuzzi bathtub, but with the general necessities of a master bathroom.)
“You don’t mind me sifting through your stuff, do you?” Apollo asked as soon as they entered. Klavier shrugged noncommittally, and with that, Apollo purposefully strode towards the line of cupboards at the end of the room, pulling open the doors and eyeing up various products, reaching up on the tips of his toes to grab things and set them in the sink for lack of a table. Klavier thought about helping him out, but not only would Apollo probably see that as him picking a fight, he was quite enjoying the view of the small man wandering in his bathroom, carefully inspecting some products and scoffing at others. It felt strange to have someone else in his house again – since the band had broken ties, no longer did Klavier wake up to Dayran snoring on his sofa or someone rummaging around in the kitchen for leftover pizza.
With a loud slam that made Klavier flinch, Apollo finished with the cupboards, taking a few bottles and tubs in his arms and moving towards the shower/bath combo.
“Come over here, and get on your knees.” He commanded Klavier, setting the items down on the edge of the bathtub and looking at him expectantly.
“At least take me out for dinner first,” Klavier spoke the first thing that had entered his mind, with an obnoxious grin. It took Apollo a moment to process what he had said, and his face heated. Suddenly, he was all too shy to look directly at Klavier, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
“Just do it,” he grumbled, and Klavier obliged, smiling all the wider. “Head over the bath,” he grumbled, reaching to grab the shower head and turning the knob to make the bath’s tap run. He worked out how to switch between shower head and bath tap quickly, running the water over his palm until it warmed, and flipping Klavier’s long hair to hang over the front of his face with a small giggle as it hit him in the eyes.
Apollo was surprisingly gentle when it came to washing Klavier’s hair; mumbling small apologies whenever he broke through a tangle with his fingers and setting the shower head down lightly as he could manage to massage some product or another into the locks.
From Klavier’s observation, he seemed to enjoy playing with the longest strands of hair. He assumed that the man had never had his own hair past shoulder-length.
They were there for so long that Klavier’s shoulders had gone stiff, but he refused to complain, telling himself over and over that this was probably the nicest thing that Apollo Justice would ever do for him; whatever his reasoning may be for doing so, and he should probably not ruin the moment.
Still, when the water was turned off and a towel was dunked on his head, he was somewhat disappointed. When he flicked his hair back and looked up from dripping strands, Apollo was nearing the door.
“Take a proper shower; I’ll be in your room.” With that, the door closed, and Klavier was alone.
Perhaps he would have preferred to take a bath, but he wouldn’t keep Apollo waiting – there was a small part of him that wondered if he was just imagining things, and that when he returned to his room Apollo may not be there (he hated that the idea scared him so much.)
So, he hurried, placing the hair product containers back where they should go and choosing some shower gel from the selection of products that Apollo had left in the sink.
Once he had undressed himself and soaked his body in the cascade of water, he had mostly forgotten about Apollo; relishing in the feeling of soothing the dirt and grease from his skin. The remainder of his (surprisingly light usage of) fake tan washed down the plughole in ugly orange-brown water, leaving only the light gold from tropical holidays and regular visits to the sunbed. The white-blonde hairs on his arms soaked slightly darker than their natural colour in the water, little droplets hitting his forearms when he lifted them to look.
Klavier wasn’t quite sure how long he spent in the shower – he didn’t think he had taken that long, but all the same, there had been a lot to wash out. He dried himself quickly, remembering his visitor with the same sense of desperation, and wrapped the towel neatly around his hips.
When he made it back to his room, he sighed inwardly with relief; Apollo was still there, sitting on Klavier’s bed, tapping at a sturdy-looking mobile phone. He was surprised that Apollo owned anything with a touch screen, but let the thought go, instead focusing on the blue stripy pyjamas he hadn’t realised that he owned sitting folded on the bed next to Apollo.
The man looked up from his phone, turning a little pink at the sight of Klavier in nothing but a towel. It fuelled Klavier’s huge ego the tiniest amount before Apollo spoke.
“You need some sleep, so get dressed.” He stood from the bed to leave, however Klavier was anything but shy, and dropped his towel, heading to the bed. Apollo squeaked and turned away, covering his eyes with a hand even though Klavier was already out of view.
“Decent,” Klavier muttered as he sat on the bed, wearing more clothes than he had ever slept in – aside from the few times that he had arrived home drunk and fallen asleep in his day clothing.
Apollo turned, and appeared to assess the situation again. He made up his mind, striding towards the door.
“Right, so I’ll leave now, and come back tomorrow. If you need me, you can–”
Klavier interrupted, suddenly desperate. “Please stay.” He wasn’t so sure how he’d cope on his own so quickly, and the time with Apollo had felt like a small miracle – he wanted to drag it out to be as long as possible.
Apollo turned to look at Klavier again, staring him down with calculating eyes before slipping his boots off at the door and switching off the light, jogging awkwardly to sit on one side of the bed and looking at Klavier expectantly.
“Bed; now.”
Klavier obliged, tucking himself in between the sheets and letting his damp hair hit the pillow. Apollo sat next to him awkwardly, shielding the light from his phone as he became engrossed in it again.
He closed his eyes, and quickly fell asleep – partially because of his exhaustion, and partially from the comfort of having someone next to him. His last thought was the realisation of how much he trusted Apollo, and a fondness flourished in his heart, replacing some of his fear.