Atlas heard her sobbing, those raw, and broken voice. In all the years they had known each other, through centuries of cruelty and tenderness, perhaps this was the first time Circe had been stripped so bare. There was no mask, no sharp tongue, no iron walls left to guard her. Only grief. Only despair. Only the sound of her pain shattering into his chest like glass.
He brushed her tears away with slow, careful hands, though she struck at him with weak blows. Each time her fists landed, he let them. He didn't flinch. He only held her closer, his eyes lifting to the ceiling as though it might hold the answers he did not. In truth, he didn't know. He didn't know what was right anymore, or what was wrong.
He didn't hate life. Nor did he crave death. He simply existed, tethered to her. If there was meaning in his breath, in his blood, in his very existence— it was hers. Always hers.
