"Pity," Thorin muttered, finishing the makeshift bandage around Lyra's ankle. "Mushrooms make good beer when properly fermented. The mountain brewers use a variety that grows in the deep caves." His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Though none quite as big as these monsters."
Apollo leaned back against a mushroom stalk, letting the others' voices wash over him. The gold in his veins had settled into a faint, exhausted pulse that matched his heartbeat.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, allowing himself the luxury of simply existing without immediate danger.
When he opened them again, he noticed something strange. The spores drifting near his hands seemed to respond to his presence, flickering faintly like embers when they came too close to his skin.
He moved his fingers experimentally, watching as the golden particles danced and brightened in his wake.
