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As the seasons changed, the air grew cool and crisp on the skin, particularly in the waning hours of the day. The sunset painted the sky in gold, crimson, and indigo bursts - colors that could never be captured in pigments held in the human hand. No, they were the colors of the gods, painting across the sky in reveries beyond the mortal imagination, chasing behind Apollo’s chariot.
It was a sight that should have brought joy, yet in these waning hours, Basilides only felt dread. It was not that certainty brought him to the outskirts of Vasiliadon, but the simple act of checking off boxes of possibility. Methodical to a fault, Bas felt as if he was certain that this fate was out of grasp, then he could perhaps set his mind to pursuing his long-lost lover across the Aegean to Athenia or Colchis, wherever he may have gone.
Granted, no ships record bore the name Zephyrus of Aetaea. Missives he sent to former troupe members either responded without hearing any word from the young acrobat or never responded at all. Basilides even waited in Vasiliadon for the several weeks it would take for a reply from Zephyrus’ prior troupe - the one he mentioned rejoining after the Children of Mneymosyne had fallen apart.
Nothing. No word at all.
The worst part of it all is that, when Basilides really tried, he forgot about the issue altogether at times. Delving into the world of merchants and nobles, wining and dining among the elite, outfitting an entire bridal party for the Dynasteia Leventi had successfully managed to distract him from the worst of all thoughts. Success, luxury, opulence - they were vices worse than the finest draught of wine or the cleanest burn of opium. It could numb the mind with a smile and dip even the dullest of moments in gold.
It was intoxicating, the life he had chosen after the troupe disbanded.
All he ever wished though, as for Zephyrus to be here. Why could the boy not understand the life he was trying to build? Basilides was not some no-name merchant of anywhere - his family bore the clout of a long-lived relationship within the major cities of the world, not only here in Taengea but abroad. Had he not explained it well enough to his lover, that they would want for nothing?
When not distracted by the affairs of the elite, Basilides found his mind running in these circles, desperate to find a way to justify his shortcomings and to place the blame anywhere but square upon his chest. Yet, there was a hole deep within his gut that knew something was wrong. This was more than just Zephyrus pining for a life they no longer held. This was not some lover’s quarrel - they had spent too much time deep within those for him not to know the difference.
It was that acidic burning within him that sent him to the outskirts of the city, to an almost barren patch of land were it not for the eerily organized rows of stones placed across the ground.
With a stolen bottle of wine from the day’s wedding in hand, Basilides made his way to the gate, speaking to the keeper briefly as he asked for directions to the most recent graves - those buried within the past month’s time. A gentle reminder was given to him to look atop the stones for those that did not bear names, where any valuables and trinkets that had belonged to the lost (barring their coin, of course) was set aside in remembrance.
The keeper handed him a small chisel, just in case he needed to carve the name of the one he sought into the stone.
Basilides lips curled around the mouth of the bottle in disdain, biting back the bile that threatened the back of his throat from the combination of the horrid thought and too much drink.
The wedding had been beautiful, though it had its faults. The incident with the dress had sent Basilides into distress from the moment he awoke, and sent him into a tailspin throughout much of the morning hours. The reception had its share of excitement, but not enough for Basilides to remain for ages.
The city had been alight with its own flavor of celebration, with music and dancing - performers on every corner, celebrating the royal union they would never be able to see. He could have stopped to partake in a game or two, throwing back stronger vintages and dancing to the music, yet….some of the chords struck too deeply.
The bard had no idea that the songs they played cut deep within him. One after another, a song that he and Zephyrus had danced to...then another that sent the acrobat soaring through the air, eliciting the gasps of commoners and nobles alike. The faint echo of pride reverberated through Basilides’ chest as he heard the tune, only for it to sink in upon himself with melancholy as he longed for his closest lover and friend once again when the song ended.
That longing brought him here, to the barren rows of unmarked and unhewn headstones. Most were empty, with some names and a few words carved roughly into the stone. A few remained with clothes and belongings atop them - a final effort for someone, anyone, to know them and to give their soul some solace at last.
His feet carried him down the length of the burial ground, noting just how many people had died within the past month with a certain awareness of his own mortality. It drove him to pull another deep draught from his bottle, noting with a slight gurgle that he had finally drained the last of it down.
The space behind his eyes felt a certain level of loftiness, as if floating over the present moment while being aware of it, if not in it. His hand jiggled the bottle briefly as if to summon more wine into it, then he lowered it with a sigh, following the arc of it’s descent until it aligned with a headstone.
Basilides stopped. His breath, his movement, his eyeline - all of it ceased and paused into suspended animation as his eyes fell onto the clothing that had been folded with great care atop the headstone. A splotch of blackened blood bloomed along the tawny midsection of the chiton, the full extent of which was folded in half to hide the entirety of the mark.
Yet, that was not what stopped Basilides in his tracks.
It could have been anyone’s chiton, anyone’s laced sandals….but it was not just anyone’s pendant laying atop the pile of clothing, the braided cord coiled with such care and perfection. The elements had taken its toll on the pendant, depicting the symbol of Zeus, King of the Gods - a bolt of lighting suspended in a finely coiled laurel wreath, with an obsidian stone pressed into the middle of the bolt. The silver had begun to blacken with tarnish, but there was no mistaking the delicacy of the metalsmithing.
It had been at a spring festival off the coast of Colchis, one racked with the situational comedy of horrid weather and too much mud. Per Colchian tradition, no element could stop the festival in which they performed, and to commemorate the event, Basilides picked the perfect symbol for Zephyrus to remember the sharp bolts of lighting that the King of the Gods bore down upon them.
It was that same pendant of silver and obsidian that rested upon a blood-stained chiton that sent Basilides to his knees.
His lungs stopped working, as did his heart. He blinked a few times as if to see if the drink had been playing tricks on him. The moment he reached his hand out to touch the pendant and the cloth, the moment became real.
The air hit his lungs like a shock to the system, sending his chest quivering as if he took in far too much and would burst. It burned as he exhaled and inhaled deeply. Everything felt numb for a moment - his face, his lips, his fingertips as they fumbled to pick up the pendant and hold it in his palm.
Feeling the cool metal on his hand sent a wave of reality crashing around him, echoed by the actual crash of his empty wine bottle against the neighboring headstone.
Zephyrus was gone.
Gone.
Basilides made a few attempts to swallow but the sudden dryness in his mouth made that impossible and frustrating. A few huffed breaths broke through his nostrils as he felt his face crumple a moment, exerting an effort for the briefest moment to control himself by pinching his eyes closed and then opening them again.
They fell on the gaping hole that rested in the center of the bloodied chiton, drawing Basilides’ hand near to it and fingering the gaping wound in the fabric, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt the outcome.
It broke him.
Breaths came in gasps as a hand moved to smother them, pressing the pendant against his lips as if to further bring home the reality of it all. His lungs burned, worse than they ever had before and everything around him seemed to blur as his tears filled his eyes.
His free hand moved to steady himself on the broken yet settling ground directly beneath the headstone. Somewhere below, buried beneath the earth, was the mop of curly hair and flushed cheeks and ivory skin of the only man Basilides had ever let himself love in all these years. There was the morbid urge to bury his hand into the ground and dig away at the soil, to dig down deep until he could see the truth of it all for himself, but there was no point. The imprint of the bolt and laurel pressed against his lips was truth enough.
Countless moment passed as he sat there, gasping and sobbing as so many must have done before in this very place, until the sun had set well beyond the horizon, past the furthest reaches of the sea.
A gentle hand settled onto his shoulder, pulling Basilides back to this time and place, as he looked up to the keeper of the graveyard. He spoke softly, in a way that was kind and understanding, yet Basilides could not recall the words even as they had been spoken. It was clear though that he needed to go, not only for the keeper who likely had a life of his own to live, but for Basilides sake as well.
“A moment,” Bas croaked, his voice hoarse from drink and sorrow, as he picked up the chisel he had dropped in the half-broken soil. The elder man nodded, taking a few steps away to offer Basilides this moment alone.
Laying Zeph’s bloodied chiton and amulet across his bent knees, Basilides managed to keep his breathing to only a few, jagged quivers as he scratched the chisel sharply against the stone. It took longer than expected, but by the time he finished writing his lover’s name, he knew what to write beneath it.
As he stood, he admired the epitaph in the stone:
ZEPHYRUS
ARTIST AND LOVER
The words were too few and too simple for everything that the man had done his his short life. He raptured the attention of countless audiences across the three kingdoms, sending them into applause that lasted almost longer than he could stand. By the gods, he could have done the same across all the realms of the world.
There never was and never would be anyone like him.
Clutching the chiton and amulet to his chest, Basilides felt his lip quiver again before looking to the keeper again, who extended an arm and placed it on his shoulder again. Basilides eyes fell to the ground before him and would remain there until his feet found their way back to the inn where he would lay in bed but gain not a single blink of sleep.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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As the seasons changed, the air grew cool and crisp on the skin, particularly in the waning hours of the day. The sunset painted the sky in gold, crimson, and indigo bursts - colors that could never be captured in pigments held in the human hand. No, they were the colors of the gods, painting across the sky in reveries beyond the mortal imagination, chasing behind Apollo’s chariot.
It was a sight that should have brought joy, yet in these waning hours, Basilides only felt dread. It was not that certainty brought him to the outskirts of Vasiliadon, but the simple act of checking off boxes of possibility. Methodical to a fault, Bas felt as if he was certain that this fate was out of grasp, then he could perhaps set his mind to pursuing his long-lost lover across the Aegean to Athenia or Colchis, wherever he may have gone.
Granted, no ships record bore the name Zephyrus of Aetaea. Missives he sent to former troupe members either responded without hearing any word from the young acrobat or never responded at all. Basilides even waited in Vasiliadon for the several weeks it would take for a reply from Zephyrus’ prior troupe - the one he mentioned rejoining after the Children of Mneymosyne had fallen apart.
Nothing. No word at all.
The worst part of it all is that, when Basilides really tried, he forgot about the issue altogether at times. Delving into the world of merchants and nobles, wining and dining among the elite, outfitting an entire bridal party for the Dynasteia Leventi had successfully managed to distract him from the worst of all thoughts. Success, luxury, opulence - they were vices worse than the finest draught of wine or the cleanest burn of opium. It could numb the mind with a smile and dip even the dullest of moments in gold.
It was intoxicating, the life he had chosen after the troupe disbanded.
All he ever wished though, as for Zephyrus to be here. Why could the boy not understand the life he was trying to build? Basilides was not some no-name merchant of anywhere - his family bore the clout of a long-lived relationship within the major cities of the world, not only here in Taengea but abroad. Had he not explained it well enough to his lover, that they would want for nothing?
When not distracted by the affairs of the elite, Basilides found his mind running in these circles, desperate to find a way to justify his shortcomings and to place the blame anywhere but square upon his chest. Yet, there was a hole deep within his gut that knew something was wrong. This was more than just Zephyrus pining for a life they no longer held. This was not some lover’s quarrel - they had spent too much time deep within those for him not to know the difference.
It was that acidic burning within him that sent him to the outskirts of the city, to an almost barren patch of land were it not for the eerily organized rows of stones placed across the ground.
With a stolen bottle of wine from the day’s wedding in hand, Basilides made his way to the gate, speaking to the keeper briefly as he asked for directions to the most recent graves - those buried within the past month’s time. A gentle reminder was given to him to look atop the stones for those that did not bear names, where any valuables and trinkets that had belonged to the lost (barring their coin, of course) was set aside in remembrance.
The keeper handed him a small chisel, just in case he needed to carve the name of the one he sought into the stone.
Basilides lips curled around the mouth of the bottle in disdain, biting back the bile that threatened the back of his throat from the combination of the horrid thought and too much drink.
The wedding had been beautiful, though it had its faults. The incident with the dress had sent Basilides into distress from the moment he awoke, and sent him into a tailspin throughout much of the morning hours. The reception had its share of excitement, but not enough for Basilides to remain for ages.
The city had been alight with its own flavor of celebration, with music and dancing - performers on every corner, celebrating the royal union they would never be able to see. He could have stopped to partake in a game or two, throwing back stronger vintages and dancing to the music, yet….some of the chords struck too deeply.
The bard had no idea that the songs they played cut deep within him. One after another, a song that he and Zephyrus had danced to...then another that sent the acrobat soaring through the air, eliciting the gasps of commoners and nobles alike. The faint echo of pride reverberated through Basilides’ chest as he heard the tune, only for it to sink in upon himself with melancholy as he longed for his closest lover and friend once again when the song ended.
That longing brought him here, to the barren rows of unmarked and unhewn headstones. Most were empty, with some names and a few words carved roughly into the stone. A few remained with clothes and belongings atop them - a final effort for someone, anyone, to know them and to give their soul some solace at last.
His feet carried him down the length of the burial ground, noting just how many people had died within the past month with a certain awareness of his own mortality. It drove him to pull another deep draught from his bottle, noting with a slight gurgle that he had finally drained the last of it down.
The space behind his eyes felt a certain level of loftiness, as if floating over the present moment while being aware of it, if not in it. His hand jiggled the bottle briefly as if to summon more wine into it, then he lowered it with a sigh, following the arc of it’s descent until it aligned with a headstone.
Basilides stopped. His breath, his movement, his eyeline - all of it ceased and paused into suspended animation as his eyes fell onto the clothing that had been folded with great care atop the headstone. A splotch of blackened blood bloomed along the tawny midsection of the chiton, the full extent of which was folded in half to hide the entirety of the mark.
Yet, that was not what stopped Basilides in his tracks.
It could have been anyone’s chiton, anyone’s laced sandals….but it was not just anyone’s pendant laying atop the pile of clothing, the braided cord coiled with such care and perfection. The elements had taken its toll on the pendant, depicting the symbol of Zeus, King of the Gods - a bolt of lighting suspended in a finely coiled laurel wreath, with an obsidian stone pressed into the middle of the bolt. The silver had begun to blacken with tarnish, but there was no mistaking the delicacy of the metalsmithing.
It had been at a spring festival off the coast of Colchis, one racked with the situational comedy of horrid weather and too much mud. Per Colchian tradition, no element could stop the festival in which they performed, and to commemorate the event, Basilides picked the perfect symbol for Zephyrus to remember the sharp bolts of lighting that the King of the Gods bore down upon them.
It was that same pendant of silver and obsidian that rested upon a blood-stained chiton that sent Basilides to his knees.
His lungs stopped working, as did his heart. He blinked a few times as if to see if the drink had been playing tricks on him. The moment he reached his hand out to touch the pendant and the cloth, the moment became real.
The air hit his lungs like a shock to the system, sending his chest quivering as if he took in far too much and would burst. It burned as he exhaled and inhaled deeply. Everything felt numb for a moment - his face, his lips, his fingertips as they fumbled to pick up the pendant and hold it in his palm.
Feeling the cool metal on his hand sent a wave of reality crashing around him, echoed by the actual crash of his empty wine bottle against the neighboring headstone.
Zephyrus was gone.
Gone.
Basilides made a few attempts to swallow but the sudden dryness in his mouth made that impossible and frustrating. A few huffed breaths broke through his nostrils as he felt his face crumple a moment, exerting an effort for the briefest moment to control himself by pinching his eyes closed and then opening them again.
They fell on the gaping hole that rested in the center of the bloodied chiton, drawing Basilides’ hand near to it and fingering the gaping wound in the fabric, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt the outcome.
It broke him.
Breaths came in gasps as a hand moved to smother them, pressing the pendant against his lips as if to further bring home the reality of it all. His lungs burned, worse than they ever had before and everything around him seemed to blur as his tears filled his eyes.
His free hand moved to steady himself on the broken yet settling ground directly beneath the headstone. Somewhere below, buried beneath the earth, was the mop of curly hair and flushed cheeks and ivory skin of the only man Basilides had ever let himself love in all these years. There was the morbid urge to bury his hand into the ground and dig away at the soil, to dig down deep until he could see the truth of it all for himself, but there was no point. The imprint of the bolt and laurel pressed against his lips was truth enough.
Countless moment passed as he sat there, gasping and sobbing as so many must have done before in this very place, until the sun had set well beyond the horizon, past the furthest reaches of the sea.
A gentle hand settled onto his shoulder, pulling Basilides back to this time and place, as he looked up to the keeper of the graveyard. He spoke softly, in a way that was kind and understanding, yet Basilides could not recall the words even as they had been spoken. It was clear though that he needed to go, not only for the keeper who likely had a life of his own to live, but for Basilides sake as well.
“A moment,” Bas croaked, his voice hoarse from drink and sorrow, as he picked up the chisel he had dropped in the half-broken soil. The elder man nodded, taking a few steps away to offer Basilides this moment alone.
Laying Zeph’s bloodied chiton and amulet across his bent knees, Basilides managed to keep his breathing to only a few, jagged quivers as he scratched the chisel sharply against the stone. It took longer than expected, but by the time he finished writing his lover’s name, he knew what to write beneath it.
As he stood, he admired the epitaph in the stone:
ZEPHYRUS
ARTIST AND LOVER
The words were too few and too simple for everything that the man had done his his short life. He raptured the attention of countless audiences across the three kingdoms, sending them into applause that lasted almost longer than he could stand. By the gods, he could have done the same across all the realms of the world.
There never was and never would be anyone like him.
Clutching the chiton and amulet to his chest, Basilides felt his lip quiver again before looking to the keeper again, who extended an arm and placed it on his shoulder again. Basilides eyes fell to the ground before him and would remain there until his feet found their way back to the inn where he would lay in bed but gain not a single blink of sleep.
As the seasons changed, the air grew cool and crisp on the skin, particularly in the waning hours of the day. The sunset painted the sky in gold, crimson, and indigo bursts - colors that could never be captured in pigments held in the human hand. No, they were the colors of the gods, painting across the sky in reveries beyond the mortal imagination, chasing behind Apollo’s chariot.
It was a sight that should have brought joy, yet in these waning hours, Basilides only felt dread. It was not that certainty brought him to the outskirts of Vasiliadon, but the simple act of checking off boxes of possibility. Methodical to a fault, Bas felt as if he was certain that this fate was out of grasp, then he could perhaps set his mind to pursuing his long-lost lover across the Aegean to Athenia or Colchis, wherever he may have gone.
Granted, no ships record bore the name Zephyrus of Aetaea. Missives he sent to former troupe members either responded without hearing any word from the young acrobat or never responded at all. Basilides even waited in Vasiliadon for the several weeks it would take for a reply from Zephyrus’ prior troupe - the one he mentioned rejoining after the Children of Mneymosyne had fallen apart.
Nothing. No word at all.
The worst part of it all is that, when Basilides really tried, he forgot about the issue altogether at times. Delving into the world of merchants and nobles, wining and dining among the elite, outfitting an entire bridal party for the Dynasteia Leventi had successfully managed to distract him from the worst of all thoughts. Success, luxury, opulence - they were vices worse than the finest draught of wine or the cleanest burn of opium. It could numb the mind with a smile and dip even the dullest of moments in gold.
It was intoxicating, the life he had chosen after the troupe disbanded.
All he ever wished though, as for Zephyrus to be here. Why could the boy not understand the life he was trying to build? Basilides was not some no-name merchant of anywhere - his family bore the clout of a long-lived relationship within the major cities of the world, not only here in Taengea but abroad. Had he not explained it well enough to his lover, that they would want for nothing?
When not distracted by the affairs of the elite, Basilides found his mind running in these circles, desperate to find a way to justify his shortcomings and to place the blame anywhere but square upon his chest. Yet, there was a hole deep within his gut that knew something was wrong. This was more than just Zephyrus pining for a life they no longer held. This was not some lover’s quarrel - they had spent too much time deep within those for him not to know the difference.
It was that acidic burning within him that sent him to the outskirts of the city, to an almost barren patch of land were it not for the eerily organized rows of stones placed across the ground.
With a stolen bottle of wine from the day’s wedding in hand, Basilides made his way to the gate, speaking to the keeper briefly as he asked for directions to the most recent graves - those buried within the past month’s time. A gentle reminder was given to him to look atop the stones for those that did not bear names, where any valuables and trinkets that had belonged to the lost (barring their coin, of course) was set aside in remembrance.
The keeper handed him a small chisel, just in case he needed to carve the name of the one he sought into the stone.
Basilides lips curled around the mouth of the bottle in disdain, biting back the bile that threatened the back of his throat from the combination of the horrid thought and too much drink.
The wedding had been beautiful, though it had its faults. The incident with the dress had sent Basilides into distress from the moment he awoke, and sent him into a tailspin throughout much of the morning hours. The reception had its share of excitement, but not enough for Basilides to remain for ages.
The city had been alight with its own flavor of celebration, with music and dancing - performers on every corner, celebrating the royal union they would never be able to see. He could have stopped to partake in a game or two, throwing back stronger vintages and dancing to the music, yet….some of the chords struck too deeply.
The bard had no idea that the songs they played cut deep within him. One after another, a song that he and Zephyrus had danced to...then another that sent the acrobat soaring through the air, eliciting the gasps of commoners and nobles alike. The faint echo of pride reverberated through Basilides’ chest as he heard the tune, only for it to sink in upon himself with melancholy as he longed for his closest lover and friend once again when the song ended.
That longing brought him here, to the barren rows of unmarked and unhewn headstones. Most were empty, with some names and a few words carved roughly into the stone. A few remained with clothes and belongings atop them - a final effort for someone, anyone, to know them and to give their soul some solace at last.
His feet carried him down the length of the burial ground, noting just how many people had died within the past month with a certain awareness of his own mortality. It drove him to pull another deep draught from his bottle, noting with a slight gurgle that he had finally drained the last of it down.
The space behind his eyes felt a certain level of loftiness, as if floating over the present moment while being aware of it, if not in it. His hand jiggled the bottle briefly as if to summon more wine into it, then he lowered it with a sigh, following the arc of it’s descent until it aligned with a headstone.
Basilides stopped. His breath, his movement, his eyeline - all of it ceased and paused into suspended animation as his eyes fell onto the clothing that had been folded with great care atop the headstone. A splotch of blackened blood bloomed along the tawny midsection of the chiton, the full extent of which was folded in half to hide the entirety of the mark.
Yet, that was not what stopped Basilides in his tracks.
It could have been anyone’s chiton, anyone’s laced sandals….but it was not just anyone’s pendant laying atop the pile of clothing, the braided cord coiled with such care and perfection. The elements had taken its toll on the pendant, depicting the symbol of Zeus, King of the Gods - a bolt of lighting suspended in a finely coiled laurel wreath, with an obsidian stone pressed into the middle of the bolt. The silver had begun to blacken with tarnish, but there was no mistaking the delicacy of the metalsmithing.
It had been at a spring festival off the coast of Colchis, one racked with the situational comedy of horrid weather and too much mud. Per Colchian tradition, no element could stop the festival in which they performed, and to commemorate the event, Basilides picked the perfect symbol for Zephyrus to remember the sharp bolts of lighting that the King of the Gods bore down upon them.
It was that same pendant of silver and obsidian that rested upon a blood-stained chiton that sent Basilides to his knees.
His lungs stopped working, as did his heart. He blinked a few times as if to see if the drink had been playing tricks on him. The moment he reached his hand out to touch the pendant and the cloth, the moment became real.
The air hit his lungs like a shock to the system, sending his chest quivering as if he took in far too much and would burst. It burned as he exhaled and inhaled deeply. Everything felt numb for a moment - his face, his lips, his fingertips as they fumbled to pick up the pendant and hold it in his palm.
Feeling the cool metal on his hand sent a wave of reality crashing around him, echoed by the actual crash of his empty wine bottle against the neighboring headstone.
Zephyrus was gone.
Gone.
Basilides made a few attempts to swallow but the sudden dryness in his mouth made that impossible and frustrating. A few huffed breaths broke through his nostrils as he felt his face crumple a moment, exerting an effort for the briefest moment to control himself by pinching his eyes closed and then opening them again.
They fell on the gaping hole that rested in the center of the bloodied chiton, drawing Basilides’ hand near to it and fingering the gaping wound in the fabric, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt the outcome.
It broke him.
Breaths came in gasps as a hand moved to smother them, pressing the pendant against his lips as if to further bring home the reality of it all. His lungs burned, worse than they ever had before and everything around him seemed to blur as his tears filled his eyes.
His free hand moved to steady himself on the broken yet settling ground directly beneath the headstone. Somewhere below, buried beneath the earth, was the mop of curly hair and flushed cheeks and ivory skin of the only man Basilides had ever let himself love in all these years. There was the morbid urge to bury his hand into the ground and dig away at the soil, to dig down deep until he could see the truth of it all for himself, but there was no point. The imprint of the bolt and laurel pressed against his lips was truth enough.
Countless moment passed as he sat there, gasping and sobbing as so many must have done before in this very place, until the sun had set well beyond the horizon, past the furthest reaches of the sea.
A gentle hand settled onto his shoulder, pulling Basilides back to this time and place, as he looked up to the keeper of the graveyard. He spoke softly, in a way that was kind and understanding, yet Basilides could not recall the words even as they had been spoken. It was clear though that he needed to go, not only for the keeper who likely had a life of his own to live, but for Basilides sake as well.
“A moment,” Bas croaked, his voice hoarse from drink and sorrow, as he picked up the chisel he had dropped in the half-broken soil. The elder man nodded, taking a few steps away to offer Basilides this moment alone.
Laying Zeph’s bloodied chiton and amulet across his bent knees, Basilides managed to keep his breathing to only a few, jagged quivers as he scratched the chisel sharply against the stone. It took longer than expected, but by the time he finished writing his lover’s name, he knew what to write beneath it.
As he stood, he admired the epitaph in the stone:
ZEPHYRUS
ARTIST AND LOVER
The words were too few and too simple for everything that the man had done his his short life. He raptured the attention of countless audiences across the three kingdoms, sending them into applause that lasted almost longer than he could stand. By the gods, he could have done the same across all the realms of the world.
There never was and never would be anyone like him.
Clutching the chiton and amulet to his chest, Basilides felt his lip quiver again before looking to the keeper again, who extended an arm and placed it on his shoulder again. Basilides eyes fell to the ground before him and would remain there until his feet found their way back to the inn where he would lay in bed but gain not a single blink of sleep.