by Tari Gwaemir
Apollo has an audience with Destiny.

"Good evening, Apollo," said Destiny without turning, his hooded head still bent over the book.

The young god nervously shifted from foot to foot, his bright rays flickering in and out. "Good evening, Potmos. I hope you don't mind the impertinence of my visit--"

"What brings you to my garden? You usually prefer the company of my brother."

Apollo hesitated, the halo around him dimming to a dull golden glow. "I came to ask a favor."

"You know as well as any that I grant no favors."

"But Potmos! My foresight has grown clouded; I can no longer see the future. The oracle at Delphi seeks audience with me at every hour, yet I have nothing to tell her. Please...would you allow me to read your book?"

Destiny closed the book, chain rattling. "Tell her what you believe will happen."

"But I don't know if it will."

"Does it matter?"

Apollo drew himself to his full height. "I am the god of truth and prophecy!"

"What is a prophecy?" Destiny mused, his hands caressing the covers of the book. "Does it ever speak the truth? Mortals were never fond of me, Apollo. Even those who claim to walk these forking paths and read from the pages of my book secretly hate me. They would prefer to believe that I didn't exist."

"There are humans who embrace their destiny--"

"There is no human that does not believe in their own free will, even those who claim to obey my will. They do not realize that I do not dictate the course of their lives; the future is not created, it simply will be. But humans will always believe that the future is of their own making."


"Prophecy is not destiny, my friend, but the stuff of dreams. Oracles belong to Morpheus' realm, not mine." Destiny opened his book again and resumed reading.


The Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman.

Written for 31_days theme exchange 2006, from the theme list compiled by Sophia (sophiap).