If Hyacinthe wanted archaism, Apollo had no problems quoting by the hour. Mercurial as ever, he could launch into iambic pentameter or harmonic ballad at the twitch of the breeze, whichever tickled his fancy at that particular moment. Hyper activity? The golden deity was one of the co-founders, oh yes.

Nevertheless, he gazed upon Hyacinthe with ageless tenderness and unfading love, willing the spirit he'd known so every long ago to come once more into the blessed light to be warmed in the golden sun. He gently reached out, enfolded one of his hands in his own and curled it against his chest, directly over his heart.

"Then I will take what thou sees fit to offer me, my sweet one. For even the smallest favor from thy pure heart would be e'en greater than all the gold 'neath the soaring mountains."