Clichés have a life of their own. Clichés exist because moments in time are overplayed. Yet, when your eyes are locked into a gaze inside each other souls, with the entirety of time slowing down to allow the both of you to take in every single second of this moment, allowing every single feeling to be felt and pinned down into the memory part of your brain, you can’t erase it or tone it down because it has been done so many times before. He was still breathing when he saw her for the first time, he was still very much aware of his surroundings and he swears when she finally looked at him he could feel himself coming alive once more. It was a strange feeling. He wasn’t even sure he had felt this possessed and taken by another being the way she was making him feel. For the first time in a very long time, he was finally seen. He was truly feeling beyond the eternal chase and pleasure. There was something beyond the consuming passion and lust that had driven him into pursuing each and every single person crossing his path. This was new, this was exciting, this was frightening.

A two-tonne weight around my chest feels like it just dropped a twenty-storey height. If there was anyone to ever get through this life with their heart still intact, they didn't do it right.


Without a word from her, he had placed his heart and soul between her hands: for her to care, to love, to feed, to keep alive. A silent contract had been signed between the two the moment they had become one single being, entangled limbs forming a different kind of frightening beast. The world could collapse, he could lose his immortality, his strength, his everything; it didn’t matter. He had her. And she had him, from head to toe, from spirit and soul. Without really realizing it, he was giving himself a bigger cliff to fall from; but in that particular moment, when his fingers traveled down the soft skin of her arms, he didn’t even think there could be a fall. He was only going higher and higher. 		Goodbye had never really found its place in his vocabulary. When you’re an immortal god, it starts to lose its meaning after a few centuries. Mortals come and go, therefore you sort of learn that the moments you share can’t go too deep because… what’s the point?

Except this time. This time his entire existence seem to be linked to her. And she’s going. She’s leaving. Her mortality is becoming apparent in that moment, when each single second carry such a weight, he finally understands the meaning of suffocation. For the first time in a very very long time he finds himself with a soul silently crying and begging for any form of liberation. For her. To live on, to join him in the eternal life, to experience each century and its own quirks together. Just the two of them, is that too much to ask?

The last time I felt your weight on my chest, you said, "We didn't get it right, but, love, we did our best". And we will again. Moving on in time and taking more from everything that ends.
 Shattered and broken. For a brief period, he makes an attempt at living again as he indulges in everything he adores: owning a farm, sheep, and chasing after every single human willing to give themselves to him. He’s successful, always but when the last candle stops lighting up the room, when the last human body has left his cottage, he remembers what it was life to live again. He spends an eternity – or so it seems, mourning and chasing anything that could mend his broken heart and soul. He doesn’t realize how broken he is, how deep the wound happens to be; he just thinks it’s just one of those ‘hardships’ you have to go through. Yet everything seems to go backward, isn’t the scar supposed to heal as time passes by and not deepen with each single day? It feels like it. There comes a point in his existence when he removes himself entirely, he stops living, experiencing, enjoying anything that makes him Pan because he doesn’t know what else to do. He feels the missing piece that is supposed to be here too strongly to properly function.

I have never known a silence like the one fallen here, never watched my future darken in a single tear. I know we want this to go easy by being somebody's fault but we've gone long enough to know this isn't what we want and that isn't always bad. When people say that something is forever either way, it ends.


It’s part one all over her again. Her eyes capturing his soul, the smile pushing every single cloud away, her hair shining a new light into his book store that suddenly had lost its appeal. When did his life become a cliché RomCom? He can’t help but smile from ear to ear as he watches her, not really listening to what she is telling him but he is certainly watching his lips. All he wants to do is capture them with his own into a deep, breathless kiss. They can talk later. And for a split second, he is about to jump over that counter and actually do it, holds her in the closest embrace possible and whisper how much he had missed her. Four hundred years. But he doesn’t. For the first time of his very long life, his brain is telling him to hold back. The one person he wants to cherish in every possible way, and he doesn’t. The wound is still too deep.

And just knowing that everything will end should not change our plans when we begin again.




the duel
The applause echoed through the mountain Tmolus, the trees dancing in unison as a form of approval. What betrayal. The crowd surrounding the two deities seemed to be in complete agreement: Pan had lost. Perhaps they weren't cheering his shameful disgrace, yet it felt as if the entire world was laughing at him. Except for one. Midas. He wasn't celebrating Apollo's victory - to be fair, Pan didn't really think those were genuine reactions to begin with; everyone had to be under his spell, why else would they declare this other god the better and more talented musician between the two? Sure, he was the god of music, but so was Pan. No other sound could compare to the one born from his pipes. So what if Apollo had a golden lyre? There was no need to make a big deal out of it. Jealousy? No. Pan was not jealous. He knew he was far more superior, this was a fact. Yet, he couldn't deny the way he felt as he watched the crowd of followers - some his very own, imagine that! - clapping for a pompous god who wouldn't accept to be relegated to the second place. Betrayal! The ones who had worshipped him in many ways, seemed to have forgotten their vows and promises, leaving him feeling like second best as he stood there, his beloved pipes in hand and watched Apollo roaring with laughter and pleasure as he punished Midas for daring to speak the truth. How he wanted to push him with all the almighty strength he could feel in his closed fist. The desire to grab the golden lyre and push it down Apollo's throat was getting more intense with each laugh coming from the crowd. How dare they? "I hope you've learned your lesson." How dare he?


Sulking inside his lair, Pan's face had been covered by a frown: from his head to his lips. He was unhappy, that was clear. He was unsatisfied. Since the day at mountain Tmolus, he had retreated to his cave, with nothing but the sound of his pipes, the trickling water and his own sigh for companionship. He didn't need anyone, they all believed he was a joke anyway. The fact that this was completely true or not didn't matter to him, he was feeling completely ashamed following his defeat and every glance, every smile, every sound coming from any being he crossed path with felt like a mockery being thrown at him. Was he truly the second best to Apollo's grandeur? Was he truly nothing but a distracting deity with a fantastic sense of humor and fantastic pair of legs to dance until dawn? Was he even a better dance than Apollo at this point? He had lost this overconfidence that had carried him from the moment he was brought to Mount Olympus and dotted on by the deities laying their eyes upon him. This marvelous creature felt nothing but shame. Another heavy sigh escaped his lips as he rolled onto his back when he had a faint cry of his name. The great god Pan is dead! Dead? Was he dead? The curiosity made him rise from his bed as he leaped toward the entrance of his cave, head tilted to the side as he listened attentively beyond the sound of the humming trees and the whispering mountains,. The great god Pan is dead! Again! A different voice this time. A few steps further away from his lair and he heard it again. Another voice. The news of his demise was spreading faster than he could truly understand it. And for the first time since his defeat, he smiled. A smile so wide and mischievous, it scared a pair of goats that had been lounging near his cave. So, they believed he was dead, didn't they? Maybe he will remain hidden a little bit longer. Let them mourn him. Let them learn their lesson. No one makes fun of the great god Pan.
the death



He can feel it burning inside. Every single cell from this body that holds his entire being is burning with this urge to destroy. The taste of blood has never really been his thing but the sight? Oh the sight. How he enjoys watching it drip from the walls of a dark tunnel running underneath the city, how he finds the sound of the dripping blood so haunting he can’t help but take in a deep breath every time the drop hits the dirty ground, forming a puddle that with time, becomes a mix of blood, flesh, and crushed bones. He doesn’t really understand how this happened, but his hand is holding the neck of a decapitated head while the rest of the creature’s body is laying on the ground. He has never felt more alive than in that moment, when his own hands had crushed the life out of a creature born in the depth of this earth. When was the last time he had caused the death of another being? The thought is passing through his mind, as thought it didn’t matter but reminded him of his original ways. Remember the wrath? An echo coming from the depth of his soul. He remembers it. It has been such a long time, flashes of destruction, blood, limbs pulled apart, a being becoming nothing but a pile of flesh and bones as he stood covered in the remains of his victims. He remembers.



There’s an itch he can’t seem to scratch. It’s there. It moves. From behind his head, to the back of his shoulder, to the bottom of his spine, it won’t disappear. He doesn’t really understand what it is or why it won’t go away. Why, his need for blood and destruction seems to be increasing every time she is near him. He wants to chock her, he wants to turn her into nothing but a puddle of flesh, bones, blood – nothing but the physical remains if her existence. And it’s not just her. Every time he crosses path with creature from the depth of this earth he wants to crush it, every time he walks by a mer mortal he wants to destroy them, turns them into dust, taste their blood and what remains of them on this earth. They are nothing but a moment of distraction. Something to play with. I’m a troll, you see. How often has he spoken these words? It’s true, on some levels. He enjoys messing with the simple beings that share his space and time in this world - they can be entertaining and at the same time, this urge, this need, it’s growing. Blood. Nothing but blood and destruction. He is craving it.