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Staring in aghast at the groveling man, Apollo sneers down at the satyr in disdain. Sighing, Apollo finishes his drink and loudly groans before responding to the pleading subject. “No. No. No. As the tutor of my brother, certainly you must be wise enough to know that you do not short the taxes of the land.”
Ganymede approached the god and filled the container before returning to his position behind Apollo. Hardly needing any sort of prompting to do so other than the breathy sigh.
The satyr blurts, “My Lord, my wife is gone. My children are gone. All from the sickness spreading through the lands. No one is left other than me. You’ve got to understand–”
“–Yes, I understand perfectly. You're trying to short the realm on the taxes that your community is due to pay,” Apollo snaps grouchily. “You as well as I know that if you willfully choose to skip taxes, it harms the kingdom. I refuse to allow the realm to suffer from your laziness.”
“That's not it,” exclaimed Silenus. “The entire countryside is barren. How could we possibly pay taxes when the entire community is gone.”
“That’s not my concern. Your lack of money management skills would impact our civilization’s ability to provide. Should every single village refuse to pay the pizzo, I wouldn’t be able to run the government.” Glaring at the elderly satyr grouchily, Apollo bares his teeth.
“You don’t understand my Lord,” my eyes fell upon the tawny satyr. “There’s no one left in my village. All of them have been taken by the plague. There’s no way that I can make the pizzo.”
“Work harder, don’t drink away the money you’ve coming in,” warns Apollo.
The satyr glares back at the Lord of Caelum. His eyes now staring venomously. “Take it back.” Silenus demands the God of the Sun.
Sharply I exhaled the breath that I was unconsciously holding. My eyes locked on the satyr before me. Rumors of satyrs’ murderous tendencies have been whispered about by the village. Though previously, it felt like a far stretch for the fun-loving satyrs who followed Dionysus and Pan.
Silenus shakes with anger. Any fear from him is gone.
Apollo rolls his eyes, “You’ve one week to come back and pay me what’s due. Should you not, your pizzo will be your life.” Apollo laughs as he traces the rim of the goblet of ambrosia.
“Demand whatever you like.” Spits the man as he pulls down his clothes to reveal the stone spreading rapidly across his skin.
Judging from what I saw with the nymph, I doubt he has hours left before he too becomes a statue.
“Steal whatever gold and riches you can from your citizens, for in a year, you’ll be squeezing the pizzo from the lifeless rocks and swaying trees of your citizens. There is no one to pay now and there will be none later,” uttered the satyr. “In the name of Pan himself, I curse you!” shouts Silenus. Bleak eyes filled with solemn sadness. Tired and weary, missing those who he loves.
Swirling his drink, Apollo wordlessly gestures to the servant. The ice is chiming across the container. I want to roll my eyes at the Lord of Snootiness standing before me. As though he couldn’t waste a precious word on someone so lowly as a subject of his.
“Seize him, throw him in the dungeon for treason and tax evasion.” Drinking loudly, Apollo downs his second goblet of ambrosia.
Finger clicking on the rim, he wordlessly signals the servant to refill his glass for the third time. The wine bearer Ganymede looks down as he pours the wine.
With alcohol flushed cheeks and actively becoming more barbaric and boisterous by the moment, Apollo grins as the satyr is forced to the ground.
The palace guards binding his hands tightly behind his back. His eyes glare murderously at the drunken god. “I pray to Pan that for the sake of the nation that the House of Hera returns and claims their rightful place as the rulers of the court.”
Apollo looks on inebriated bemusement. Sitting tall and mighty. As though he is untouchable.
“Persephone would be disgusted by you,” the satyr states as he glares at the drunk god before him. “It’s no wonder why she left you for the God of the Dead.”
Loudly slurping his wine, the god pauses. His drink falls from his hands. Clattering against the stones.
One glass.
Two glasses.
Three glasses.
Floor.
Collapsing to the floor, Apollo seizes. Wheezing loudly, I can hear the distress in his voice. Convulsing, he looks like he is barely holding down his lunch. Clutching his stomach, Apollo moans.
All the color in his face is gone.
Hooded figures step forward from the crowd in the Throne Room. Navy blue with an emblem of a storm cloud with a lightning bolt on the left side of the chest. Five in total. Some holding battle axes, great swords and one holding a pike.
