In a chamber veiled in ethereal vapors, Apollo stood in silent contemplation, concealing his divine visage from the younger attendants and priests of his sanctuary. There, sitting upon the sacred tripod that hovered above the earth's fissure, radiated the presence of the Oracle of Delphi—the Pythia. She, the chosen conduit of Apollo, his Pythia, his Lucy. Entering into a realm of ecstasy and altered consciousness brought forth by the vapors, nearly dropping the laurels held between her fingers. As Apollo began to speak his truth, his voice, though resonant, reached no mortal ear. Her lips then began to recite his in the softest of voices he had learned to love. What he would give to see her lips curl into a smile when presented with him... to feel the velvety caress of her skin against his ageless lips...

Yet, Lucy would never lose Apollo; she would not be like the others who left, who succumbed to mortality or fell victim to curses. Unlike others who departed or succumbed to curses. She was beauty incarnate, and she belonged to him entirely. He would make you his immortal bride forever releasing you from the cold grip of mortality, he would use the nectare of the gods if it would mean keeping you with him.

It was only when the room was empty, barring the Pythia and the ghostly vapor exuding from the crack in the earth's crust, that he dared to step forward and finally make his presence known. Apollo manifested himself fully, no longer confined to the hidden recesses of her heart and mind. He yearned for more, desired more— free to claim her heart, mind, soul, and body as one.

His strong yet velvety hand extended from the mist that shrouded him, gently touching her arm before sensuously sliding to her shoulders, then the nape of her neck, and finally gliding her hair over her shoulder so that he could glimpse the delicate expanse of her skin. "My Lucy," he melodically whispered his words against her neck, in the enchanting voice she had only ever heard within the realm of her lucid visions.