Who: Pan [pantastic] & Syrinx [syrinx] (Mentions of Apollo [apollimi] & Castor [thedioscuri]) What: Followed on from events here, a meeting that has taken far too many centuries. Where: Bacchus, Dionysus' bar When: November 17, evening Warnings: PG-13, implied violence, abuse- possessive Gods.
It was a crowded night, and it may well have been recently opened but it had already attracted plenty of attention from locals and tourists. Syrinx supposes she can see the appeal in the place (not for someone like her, no, but for others - yes) with black furniture and yellow lights, the music just loud enough to give conversations some privacy. There's a lot of them here, and Syrinx feels them looming in Erebus' folds making her shy towards the candle light. This proceeds to crawls along her skin, upwards until it reaches her eyes (calm,alert,vacant?) and is mirrored back, retracing its steps. The after touch remains.
The entire setting is uninviting for something(one?) like her, and the drumming of the music is the only thing Syrinx feels is real. It holds her ready and poised, beckoning her to jump up at the right beat and flow into it. The aim is to get lost, nothing more nothing less. However she remains in her seat, the sun and stars(twins,gemini,disocuri) revolve around her. They do not touch, they do not push, immersed in their own conversation and sweet wine.
Syrinx has not had more than a glass, won't have more than that- it is dangerous and unwise, and she does not trust he-them enough. Immortal Gods play games, nymphs are usually the targets paying a price too high for some god's whim.
Too much noise and she gets lost (her mind, not her body which remains in its seat) the voices, music, the clinking of glasses and scraping of chairs- heat rises along her skin colouring her pale complexion. Not embarrassment, but suffocated in this ambience- her discomfort noticiable enough for Apollo to touch her arm and free her from his side.
At the next beat Syrinx is out of her chair and moving (not running, but certainly with clear-cut direction) to the bathroom. She swims her way along, navigating past bodies (contact makes her cringe and flinch) but the restrooms are spacious and empty. It no longer smells of wine, but of some artificial detergent which clings around her uncomfortably.
Water.
Her hands fiddle with the tap, turning it on fully and dipping her hands beneath to relieve her discomfort. It is familiar and soothing, everything will be fine now.
Unknown to Syrinx, a familiar presence lurks on the other side of the bar, power drowned out by the rest of the crowd, which seems to be thinning as the night draws on. Bad luck, that is. He doesn't have a drink on the table in front of him, and so he sneaks a sip from a flask before standing, eyes on the door that the nymph had scurried through.
Pan, hood kept tucked over his head casually, so as not to attract too much suspicious attention, makes a quick beeline for the ladies room, glancing around quickly before slipping inside.
The second he lays eyes on her, his heart thuds hard in his chest, as though desperately wishing to rip itself out and onto the floor. As always, she's too beautiful for words. Ethereal, mysterious, untouchable -- all those things and more. He figures she hasn't noticed him entering with the water running, and entranced, he watches her in the mirror disbelievingly.
Eventually, impatient words spill from his lips.
"It took you long enough to detach yourself from his side." The jealousy is obvious, dripping as heavily as his hatred for the blonde immortal on the bar floor.
Blissfully unaware (but not for long) Syrinx relaxes as liquid dances off her fingertips, her current predicament is forgotten for a moment because she feels so taken in by the sound and feel of the water running. In retrospective, the nymph would berate herself on not having noticed him sooner, linked as they were- fated (trapped and tied by belief) to revolve around each other. Never touching.
His voice is unmistakable, its trace a constant echo in her memories.
Syrinx goes rigid at the words, turning to him with an expression of surprise (but this does not keep her frozen) and it then melts into confusion, hesitance and finally simple terror. She remains where she is, one hand still dipped in water, the other grasping the edge of the sink knuckles becoming white from the pressure. The first instinct is to flee (surely he knows that too) and her eyes dart past him to the door.
Her eyes say everything and nothing, Syrinx cannot (will not?) speak, and she cannot find enough panic to shriek as she had with Apollo. Instead she makes a dart for the door. (Dangerous gamble since it brought her closer to him and her freedom- back to the sun god's hands).
A hand slams into the wall before she can get within a few feet of the exit, and Pan slips the hood from his head with the other. He doesn't dare smile -- in here, there's no place for it.
"I've waited this long to see you -- you think I'm just going to let you run away? Back to him?" He can't keep the disdain from his tone. "I won't hurt you, okay? So don't freak out." But in the back of his mind, he envisions himself shaking her, demanding how she could possibly let herself get caught by Apollo of all the goddamn Olympians.
Another surge of hate surfaces, and he swallows his rage.
He does not touch her but the hand blocking her path is enough to send Syrinx a few steps back- now that she's sprung to life (the water still runs in the background, she can hear it clearly) it is hard to stay still. That face is unmistakable, her eyes don't quite look at him but at the edge of the hood- the creases and rumpled clothing. This long- how long had it been?
For a moment she wishes she could(would) speak - to defend herself (to shut him up) however there is nothing from her lips but silence. Even her expressions and gestures convey nothing, like a trapped bird beating its wings without answers (and one simple wish- freedom).
His anger burns, all Gods burn- Apollo frightens her more, Syrinx knows this is not her choice. She continues moving- bird-like jerks as she seeks for an opening (cannotwill not stay still.)
And Pan can't stay still either, because he moves forward to back her as far as possible from the door. There won't be any escaping. Not tonight. The thought fuels him, brings him ever closer, and sets his blood on fire with every step.
His, his, always his.
Mine.
"You're not going anywhere, so calm down, will you? I told you, I won't hurt you. That's not what I'm here for."
Nevertheless she flutters and tries to escape, her movements becoming increasingly erratic and clipped. He advanced and she retreated, no river blocking her path this time just concrete man-made walls (and this is why nymphs belonged out there) Syrinx backed up until the only logical option left to her was the lock herself in the furthermost back stall. Her resistance and refusal to accept his words was not out of malice, but experience- when did gods take 'no' for answers? (Never.)
That perpetual, boiling anger scorches- Pan is not the worst of the gods- but what proof had she that he would keep his word and not hurt her? It would take more than those to make her calm down.
Her eyes do not look up at him, not directly- always past him and in one final bid for safety, Syrinx is moving back of her own accord. Quick and decisive steps (nothing like the erratic beating of wings) and the stall door was being pushed open to let her in. Once inside she turned quickly trying to slam it shut and locked.
Gritting his teeth angrily, Pan stalks after her, one hand pressed to the stall door. He desperately wishes he could phase through it, because if he comes at her from one angle, she'll slide underneath and escape. And a getaway is not what he has in mind, because nymphs are nimble, and he's anything but.
"Why are you doing this? Listen, I'm not here to whisk you away on a magic carpet -- I'd be a fucking moron to try it with everyone out there. Apollo's toying with me, and if he thinks I can't tell, he's an even bigger retard than I thought."
Pause. Breathe. "Syrinx, come on."
Syrinx is listening, but she stays rooted where she is staring blankly at the door. Pan is talking (reassuring?) and she takes a tentative step towards the door, hand pressing against it- a mirrored gesture of his. It is difficult to say what she fears (maybe everything about him?) and Syrinx has spent all her life (eternity, it seemed) running from Pan.
A moment of silence that echoes in her ears (swallows up the erratic heartbeat in her chest) and there is the sound of a door being unlatched and pulled back. The nymph does not poke her head out- instead she reaches out with one hand to grasp the zip of his hoodie and pull him inside.
Because there is one thing worse than Pan- and that is Apollo walking in on this.
But the chances of Apollo doing so are slim to none, and hoping the sun god's got enough alcohol in his system to keep him occupied, Pan allows himself to be tugged, the grin surfacing easily. That's more like it. This close up, he can really see the difference in their heights. He can taste her fear.
He doesn't say anything for a change, opting to instead reach out for her face, fingers moving to cup her cheek. So long they'd been apart. He isn't about to let this moment disappear the second he looks away. Syrinx is here and very real, and suddenly he doesn't care about Apollo -- as long as he can have this one single moment with her, everything is alright.
And she is frightened and tense- evident by the way her lips part to suck in air, her eyes wide, her cheeks red (not out of embarrassment but some odd discomfort drumming in her chest). Syrinx does not wish to look at him, no- no- no. Those hauntingly pale eyes are unfocused not wanting to accept that he was there. She had not been as unfortunate as Daphne, Eros had not touched her with loathing for Pan- but that only made things marginally easier to stand.
Dainty fingers move up to clasp the sleeves of his hoodie, curling tightly around the fabric.
At least there is no screaming, nor an escape attempt.
Skirting his thumb over her cheekbone twice before pulling away -- he's never been good with showing affection -- Pan admires her face, taking in the tone of her hair, the colour of her eyes and skin. It seems so surreal to be in such close proximity to her, and feeling like the lovesick puppy, he closes his fingers around her wrists -- gently.
"How is he treating you? Badly? Just shake your head yes or no."
If only he knew how effective those affectionate touches were with the nymph, it eased her up considerably- his thumb across her cheek, made her feel pleasantly warm, rather than agitated and needing to pull away. Syrinx does not want to answer the question, because either yes or not- it will upset Pan. A yes would make him jealous, a no would make him furious. There really was no suitable answer.
Instead, she continued avoiding his eyes, moving to stare at his chest now rather than past him. His fingertips held her wrists, she wriggled them, turning so her palms were facing up and her fingers could grasp his sleeves once more.
Help.Help.Help.Help.
But it seems even her lack of a response is enough to infuriate him, because silence is just as much an answer as yes or no. He unconsciously grips her tighter, but not to harm her. Not yet.
"Look," Pan sighs, searching for every possible way to get Syrinx to loosen up. "Whatever you tell me, he won't hear any of it. I wanna know if he's hurting you."
Because no one ruins my property.
Difficult with that tight grasp, that scorching rage- it simmers beneath- steady and ready to blow. Syrinx protests by wriggling her wrists in his grasps, pushing him against the wall of the stall (or at least trying to, he was far bigger) it is not an escape attempt. Maybe she finds it silly to ask that question, this is Apollo, of course dragging her out of the woods was painful, however, now that she was his property he was remarkably careful.
Perhaps it was just about the right time, to ruin her in order to get back at Pan.
She half shakes, half nods.
The answer isn't good enough, but somehow Pan is able to let it go in favor of stroking her face again, touching her as though it'll be the last time. But he won't let it be, because no matter where that bastard takes her, he'll find her. Now that he knows she's here, so within his reach, it doesn't seem so impossible.
And he's not afraid of Apollo, because he's never been afraid of anything -- or anything.
He releases her other wrist to settle his fingers along her hip, possessive. Reassuring.
The touch on her hip causes her to jump, cringing a little because Syrinx is not used to anyone touching her, and this is not really friendly touch - it is firm, branding- a mark of ownership. Wearing a plain silk shirt, and matching skirt, those are not thick enough to keep the sensation of his digits on her skin, which will leave behind an invisible imprint in her memories.
Syrinx's fingers are clumsy as she presses one hand to Pan's face - willingly touch him, (in a different way, with Castor the fingers along his jaw were curious and friendly- a promise, a toast) and this is not anything like that. Between Gods and Nymphs- it never ended well, never ever. Those fingertips of hers crept along- brushing some strands of his hair out of the way, then moving- carefully feeling the eye socket (no she would not gouge his eyes out) then back along- pressing them against the bridge of his nose.
She held herself still for a moment, it was her way of speaking, with those little touches she was offering a conversation.
"I'll come back for you, Syrinx," the immortal whispers, palm cradling her cheek in a show of affection he's not accustomed to showing. But for her, it's different. For no other would he be willing to risk his neck this way. "I'll come back for you, and no one is going to stand in my way."
It sounds like a promise, but it's really a statement. A confirmation of his determination, of his will to never give up until Apollo is out of the picture.
How that could even be possible is a subject for another time, because now it's about Syrinx. As it always has been.
Perhaps a lot more pragmatic than her once-suitor, Syrinx takes the words as they come, she cannot argue nor encourage (nor will she encourage something that will end badly for both of them, has Pan not learned how vengeful the sun-god is?) His whisper dances on her skin and she finds it in herself to reply. It is not a usual reply as it has no words, it is a quiet hum, as if she were warming up for a song, but really it is provoked by him. Subject to his desires, eternally playing them, his breath is her voice.
It is quiet and sad, mostly complicated- so many tangled thoughts and feelings all being put into this, and then it fades out again- her fingertips moving downwards, curling around the tips of his hair and remaining there.
And he does the same with hers, twining the brilliant red around slim fingers. For a second, it seems like Pan wants to rip the strands from her head, with the abrupt tension he issues upon them, but then he pulls away and flattens himself entirely against the wall.
"... You should go, before I'm tempted to follow." His voice is strained; he doesn't want her to go, but what choice does he have?
He breaks whatever trust he has formed in that split second and Syrinx is stiff, this time her eyes are fixed on him and she withdraws her hands quickly. All in a matter of seconds (there was no reason for her to trust him for more than that). The little display of (somewhat) acknowledgement (attention? affection?) is slammed shut. Her lips press together, and she's quiet now- that low hum cut-off. This release is involuntary, Pan has to (Syrinx knows he has to) because Apollo is outside and he will always win.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Syrinx suspects it will be another long while but that does not matter, it is out of her control (this encounter has left her shaking slightly, in shock, terror and plain confusion- that Apollo's cruel familiar grasp is almost welcome) and this is a reminder of how little is in her hands.
And to bid him farewell (as his frustrated breath once brushed the reeds) she sighs softly, letting that ghost across his jaw, curling down along his neck and disappearing- as she walked away.
He waits until the bathroom door swings shut and there's no longer the sound of her presence -- just the distant beat of the music in the background, and the pounding of his blood rushing through his ears.
When Pan is sure no one is going to trail in after her, he places a violent and badly aimed kick at the stall door, just barely leaving a scuff mark on it before he, too, disappears.
Back in the open, she allows herself a sigh of relief before walking straight back to the place where the twins and Apollo were. To hide that shaking terror that clung to her visibly (if you looked at her hands they were trembling slightly) she flattened herself against Castor, trying to nestle in his arms comfortably and stay there for the rest of the evening.
Right there where it was nice and safe, ignoring Apollo's piercing stare- he could wait- everything could wait, Syrinx closed her eyes listening to the beat of the music.