He cloaks himself in shadows and waits in the temple, watching for you.

It has been some time since he visited, and he longs for your presence, your touch; just the sight of you, sometimes, is enough. Apollo knows he can be foolish in love, and he is exceptionally, extremely foolish when it comes to you. His love. His reason for breathing, sometimes, the only thing that brings novelty in his monotonous existence. You are so good to him, never forget him in your prayers - how can you, when he has given you everything?

The other priestesses move gracefully through the gloom, the scent of incense following them. Apollo's nostrils flare as he inhales, and the sense of belonging ripples over him. This is his place, dedicated to him, one of the most sacred temples in all of Greece; a place where he is safe, wanted, and beloved. Beloved by you most of all. The thought of anything happening to you fills him with dread. Already over the three years since he first saw you in that tiny village unworthy of your beauty, you have aged. One day you will grow old, your hair grey, your face lined, and he will never change. The thought almost chokes him with panic, but he forces it down. Your time is not yet short. You have many years left to serve him.

Finally he sees you, a lit votive candle in your hands. You kneel before his statue and he can see the curl of hair escaping from its pins, draped over the nape of your neck. His breath comes short, and he steps smoothly from the shadows of the column, casting a golden glow across the floor, like shifting rays of sunlight. His fingers trail, warm, over the vulnerable nape bared to him.

"Are you praying to me?" he murmurs, already knowing the answer.