Disclaimer: I am not Ovid. Lol – this is even more of a stretch than the usual…

AN: Drabble. Because there's only so much Virgil I can take in the space of a day.

The temptation to write countless more of these is unbelievable. But no. Exams. Must revise. Bad thoughts.

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Salvation

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"Apollo and Daphne, one of them racing in hope, the other in fear."
- Ovid – Metamorphoses, Book I

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She was running, twigs and branches caught in her hair as she threw herself through the forest. She spun, twisted and sped away again, but he was there, he was always there, just over her shoulder, his breath hot in her ear as she gasped for freedom.

His fingers brushed her sides and he was pleading, he loved her and he wanted her, if only she'd just slow down she'd see he was no enemy. He was lord of music and healing and prophecy, son of heaven and she was so afraid, knowing that any moment he'd catch her.

Bare feet pounding over cool dust and leaves, her light dress snagging on brambles, she tripped and cried out to the gods, to her father, lord of the stream she ran for. She cried out and felt the cool magic of spring rivers wash over her soul.

Salvation.

Her feet caught in the earth, her arms lengthened and up her back crept the cool fingers of bark, crusting her skin, a shell to hide herself from him.

And he was before her, arms went to hold her and she flinched back, leaves that were once hair stirring in protest.

"Daphne."

Her name was on his lips and she felt her blood slow to water, her toes coil to roots; she twisted from his gaze and her fingers stretched green stems to the skies.

Numbness spread like winter through a meadow, neck arching her flesh hardened to wood and just before bark lids closed on what was left of her beauty she saw him. She saw the god and saw his love and it was terrible and wonderful and beautiful beyond reason. For a moment it broke her heart to leave him.

And then all was still.

Apollo crowned himself in laurel.

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"Tree though she was, Apollo still loved her… 'Since you cannot be mine in wedlock, you must at least be Apollo's tree.'"
- Ovid – Metamorphoses, Book I

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Word count: 300 (Dead on, excluding quotes! Never thought I'd manage that.)

If you've read, it please review it!