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This is a world where two names are etched upon your hands at birth. Your soulmate on one, your worst enemy on the other. No one knows which name belongs to whom.
Not even the gods.
"Well, of course, there are always exceptions, " Apollo said, brimming with confidence. "As the mighty god of knowledge, I can assure you-" He laced his fingers around Commodus' left hand, where the sacred words 'Phoebus Apollo' shimmered in vibrant, crimson script. Powerful and glorious.
"We were fated to meet. Meant to love."
"It's not like you are another Helen of Troy." Apollo cupped Commodus' chiselled face, a playful smirk on his face. "Although you certainly have the looks for it."
Commodus chuckled lowly, not quite happily. But Apollo was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice.
"That woman had Menelaus on one hand, and Paris on the other." He mused. "Not even the Fates could discern which name was her greatest demise."
He carefully held Commodus' gloved right hand.
"You should show me who is written on there." He urged. "I would burn them from this world, burn them from your skin."
'Because you are meant to shine. You are meant to rule Rome in a long, benevolent, glorious reign blessed by me.'
Commodus grabbed his wrist before he could slip his fingers under the helm of his glove.
" Please, Apollo." He chided, but his grasp was tight.
Apollo's eyes flashed dangerously divine. "I am not one of your useless subjects. I am a god." He hissed. Instantly, the mortal servants around them fell to the ground, grovelling, but Commodus did not budge. "I am your lover." Apollo's voice took on a desparate edge. " - and I will see the threat to your destiny eradicated !"
"But some mysteries, some prophecies are best left veiled," Commodus argued, staring directly into his eyes. "Lest it plants into us a dangerous obsession."
Apollo wanted to rebut this arrogant mortal, wanted to scream just how well he knew that! Immortal lord of prophecy that thwarted Oedipus. To shake some sense into him. Because of all the gods throughout the realms of this painful world, Phoebus Apollo was the one who feared fate the least. ONLY I CAN SAVE YOU ! Yet when Commodus smiles, it turns Apollo's insides into a warm, affectionate mess. Even though the cool quirk of his lips doesn't quite reach the princeps' eyes.
Lost in summers spent in Roman tents and grape-scented kisses, everything could be blissfully forgotten.
No.
How could he ever forget this... this murder?
Apollo's hands trembled as he drew Commodus's bath, knowing exactly what he was meant to do.
Behind him, Commodus was still speaking.
“They tried to kill me,” he snarled. “I know it was them! I won’t die. I’ll show them all!”
Oh Commodus, wonderful, horrible Commodus. Who could kill you ? You were strong enough even without my blessing.
"My father, the old fool, told me to stay away from the gods, from Apollo." Commodus suddenly murmured, wrapping an arm around Narcissus. Narcissus looked down at the arm around his waist, where the jarred, bloody words - Phoebus Apollo, suddenly seemed like a curse.
"-but how could that possible for me ?" Commodus breathed, releasing Narcissus from his grasp and looking oh, very lost.
"We were meant to be ! Even if he will- " He suddenly screamed chillingly, fingers dragging bloody crescents across his face. "How ! Am I ! Ever supposed to accept this !"
"...Apollo...Apollo will stop himself...right?"
Apollo once thought that there was no other choice but for him to kill Commodus himself.
He had to do it. Before some rage-filled Roman, Commodus's fated enemy, snapped and turned the emperor into a pincushion Caesar-style. Not just to save lives, or to save Rome,
but because he could not stand to see his beautiful Commodus die by anyone else’s hands.
But now, Apollo was forced to entertain a different possibility, ensnared by fate. What they were meant to be.
There was no other choice but for him to kill Commodus himself.
I am his greatest enemy.
He left Commodus' right hand gloved. He could still remember the day he tugged at the emperor's glove teasingly. Yet now he could not bear to see the name of Commodus' supposed soulmate, the person that Commodus was supposed to love.
He could not bear this weight for the rest of his immortal life. Apollo stared wildly at his hands. The immortal bachelor, empty of words, he almost wished Commodus' name was on it. Enemy or lover.
Centuries and centuries later, Rome was ashes, and Commodus stood reborn.
He could hear Nero and Caligula urging him to go to claim the world as theirs again.
It really didn't matter that much.
He stared at his hands. Both hands, ungloved, for once bare and honest under the Sun.
Crimson red, glory red, following him through lifetimes. His greatest curse and blessing. One and one alone, no matter life or death.
On the left: Phoebus Apollo.
On the right: Phoebus Apollo
And he laughed. Of wonder, of anguish, of regret.
'I knew he would come back for me.'
'I knew he would love me.'
'I knew he would kill me.'
'No matter what I do.'
"Oh Helen...poor Helen." He said softly, raising a fist, almost capturing the Sun in his grasp. You broke your promise, couldn't stop yourself in the end.. "We are the same story after all."