Wet stone dimly lit by a stolen pendant. Air just cold enough to mist as it left his nose in short rushes; tiny ragged clouds. Coat buzzing and clammy with drying sweat, legs scraped from running through and into the caves for...hours? Days? His neck was heavy, but he still found himself looking up to check for sky - there was none, there would be none, only a roof that loomed ever too close and nothing he could use to check for the time. He should have stolen the little watch instead, the soft ticking something to fill the silence occupied only by the echo of stumbling hoofsteps over ages-old rock. It would've been better than the far-off whisper of currents moving through the depths.

Anything would've been better.

The tunnel began to widen. Grow taller, grow teeth; the twisting, many-branching paths like walking down the roots of a tree turned to a never-ending mouth. Apollo paused at what felt like the edge, taking a breath. Water plipped on his forehead, once, twice, running down his face and collecting under his jaw.

He looked up again, expecting nothing.

Movement.

Shadows between stalactites.

Bats.

...

Apollo was too tired for stories. But when he finally peeled his hooves from the floor, joints unlocking, he couldn't bring himself to move faster than a crawl. Vampires or not, the weight of hundreds of eyes was...

It was better that they stayed asleep.

(Please, stars, let them stay asleep).