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Chapter Text

It was the moment he entered the temple that sealed his death sentence.

Hyacinthus remembered the marble stairs clean of any footprint despite being stepped on by the thousands, the endless rows of milk-white columns supporting the ceiling carved with decorative patterns, and the candle holders that cast the worshiping hall into a mesmerizing glow seemingly stolen from a dream.

Among the fumes of incense, he remembered, was the grand statue of Apollo Amyklaios, one of the chief patrons of his people, who is standing at the center of the temple with all his majestic glory, detached from all earthly filth. His head was kept high with a face devoid of human emotion.

It could have been the young prince's imagination, or how ever people would call it. Yet, Hyacinthus believed he had laid eyes on not the sculpture - but the deity himself.

Lord Apollo glanced down at him with eyes that shone with the first morning rays. The god effortlessly revoked his crown and undressed his royal garments with a single gaze, peering into his soul and reaching the deepest part of his core that no one else could. He touched the real Hyacinthus and mercilessly dragged him to the blinding light for all to see.

Hyacinthus shuddered under the intensity of those otherworldly golden eyes. He felt naked and helpless as a newly-born fawn, and, in a twisted comedy woven by the Fates, he yearned for the embrace from the one who made him vulnerable to his mortality. He desperately needed Lord Apollo's hands, beautiful as gilded shackles, to chain him to his chest like a life-long sentence. Those powerful arms could crush him like breaking the head of a flower, and he would let him.

Hyacinthus wanted the god - carnally, emotionally, he didn't care which. With every sunrise and sunset, the haunting passion edged closer to devouring his mortal vessel like wildfire rage over dry land, burning the shrubs and branches. And rose from the trail of ash left behind by the fire were the blossoms of his unyielding love.

The pungent aroma of the all-consuming love dizzied the prince. He was feverous for days. His temples were pulsing. His mind was clouded, spinning like a ship battered by an unforgiving storm. His throat could barely swallow without going through the torturous flaming from the rashes that no ointments could relieve.

Until one night, Hyacinthus hazily drooped his head by the bronze sink, coughing non-stop and heaving up a bloodied petal.

A strange disease from the Easternmost land that none had seen before - the painful agony born from unrequited love.

Day after day, the hopeless longing nourished the deadly flowers. They spread through the tiniest crevices and infested the lungs, causing victims to cough up petals.

“Hyacinth?”

The young prince couldn't bring himself to answer the call of his name. He kept his eyes shut, allowing the streaks of reflective tears to sting his cheek, not caring if the interloper witnessed his pitiful state.

“Hyacinth, are you alright?”

Polyboea was suspicious of the eerie silence from him. She carefully approached her drowsy brother, only to be petrified when she saw the flower petals scattering among the spit of blood in the sink.

“What happened?!” Polyblea rushed to Hyacinthus' side to hold his head up, eyes scanning him for any injury that could have bled him to his degree, “Where did you hurt yourself–” She soon cut herself off with a gasp, “–By the Gods! ”

It didn't take long for Polyboea to find traces of blood dripping from the side of Hyacinthus' chin and staining his chiton. And worse of all, her brother's unlooking eyes made her heart jump to her throat at the worst possible assumption. Polyboea would have thought Hyacinthus was already dead if she hadn't heard his soft whimper when she dragged him away from the sink.

The young princess let her brother partially lean on her shoulder as she hurriedly scooped clean water from the nearby container to wash the dried and fresh blood off his face, although her hand was shaking the whole time and spilled some water onto their clothes and the stone floor.

“W-What happened?” Polyboea asked, “Are you sick? Did this happen before?” As much as she tried to appear composed, her shaky breathing gave away her panic

“Poly…,” Hyacinthus' throat was rasped and coarse from hours of vomiting. But he still managed to push the words out despite his breathlessness, “Don't. Don't tell... anyone.”

“But you need help!” Polyboea was about to cry but dared not to imagine how much suffering her brother was going through, “Come, Hyacinth, let me bring you to the physician–”

“No…!”

When Polyboea was about to pull him to stand up, Hyacinthus clung to his sister's arm. Even though he was in such a dire condition, he could still muster enough strength to pull her back.

“Let me be,” Hyacinthus swallowed thickly, his voice trembling as if he was containing a tearful sob, “I love him, Poly. I... I can't l-let them take... the f-flowers... away from me...”

Polyboea didn't get it right away, “What flowers?”

“The flowers... in me,” Hyacinthus chuckled dryly, “My love for him... bore these flowers in my l-lungs. I knew this day... would come.”

Unrequited love bore flowers - the disease from the Easternmost land.

“It can't be…” Polyboea's eyes widened in shock, “You knew it all along? Why did you stay silent? You will die–”

“I will die, yes,” Hyacinthus cracked a weak smile as he faced his worried sister, “But I will die... knowing... I've loved him.”

“He's not worth it!” Polyboea held his face as frightful tears began to brim at the corner of her eyes, “It will be alright. The physicians will give you something to rid the flowers. We can– We will cure you.”

The corners of Hyacinthus' mouth lowered with melancholy. Polyboea looked down alertly when she felt the weight of his hand increase on hers.

The only way to free a victim from their agony is to remove the flowers from their lungs. To take away one's ability to love.

“I can't do this,” Hyacinthus pleaded, “If the flowers die... I can't love him again.”

Yet, not every victim will choose their lives over their love.

Such fools.

Polyboea shook her head when her vision blurred from her misty tears, “No, you have to live. Why should you give your life to this man who didn't even care about you?”

“Don't say it, Poly,” Hyacinthus grinned sadly, “Lord Apollo... would not like getting mistaken for a m-mortal man.”

“... Lord Apollo?” Polyboea's mouth hung open. She would have thought her brother had gone mad if it wasn't for his steady violet eyes locking into hers.

“He is beautiful...” Hyacinthus sighed dreamily, “I loved him the moment... I saw his statue.”

Before he could drown deeper into his lovesickness, Polyboea shook Hyacinthus back and forth to wake him from his madness, “But it's only a statue, brother! Lord Apollo doesn't know you. He can never love you back.”

“So?” Hyacinthus didn't even mind, “It's enough t-that I love him.”

“No, it's not!”

Polyboea would have screamed with all her being, but she held back at the last minute when she saw her brother's beseeching eyes. She exhaled deeply, letting more tears fall from her contorted face, “You can't give up your life for a god.”

“But Poly,” Hyacinthus breathed, “He makes me feel alive.”

“... What?”

“Didn't they say–” Hyacinthus heaved in mid-sentence to collect himself, “–You are only alive... when you know how to love?”

Talking too much had caused the stinging pain to arise in his chest and throat. Hyacinthus grimaced as he grasped the fabric of his chiton, struggling with every inhale. Polyboea constantly stroked his back to help him take small gulps of air.

“I've known... w-what it's like... to l-live and love,” despite all the pain, his face soon loosened in bliss and contentment. Hyacinthus tilted to look at the bland ceiling, or it could be something from his flying imagination, “And now, I will... repay him... by giving my life back to him.”

A noble sacrifice - but left a cost too immense for the remaining to bear.

“Please,” Polyboea's choked hiccups drew Hyacinthus' eyes back to her, “We can't live without you. Don't leave us.”

“You will be fine,” Hyacinthus gently squeezed her hand, and his smile never faltered away even when her stray tears dribbled on his skin, “You and our family... will be fine. Oh, d-don't cry. I'm happy to... to die for him. Can you... help me with something?”

“What is it?”

“Bring... me... to the Eurotas,” Hyacinthus brought her hand nearer, “I want to... r-rest there.”

Polyboea immediately grabbed Hyacinthus' hand like he would vanish the next second, “Hyacinthus!”

“Will you help me, dear sister?” Hyacinthus pushed on, “... Please?”

The deep sincerity in Hyacinthus' eyes proved that no matter how much she said, her brother would not sway. He had become a sacrificial goat, one who was willing to put his head on the altar in the name of love. Blind, foolish love for a celestial being he could never fathom with his mortal mind.

“You are a fool,,” Polyboea bit her lip, “What are we going to do without you?”

Hyacinthus returned her with a trusting grin, putting all his trust in his dearest sister, “You can t-take care of Mother... and Father... for me. C-Comfort our brothers... Argalus and Cynortas, too. You c-can do it, right?”

Polyboea finally dropped her head low like a pillar collapsing with the weight it could no longer carry. Her brother in her embrace was now liquefied sand that slipped through the slightest opening of her arms - the tighter she closed her arms, the faster he flowed away.

The thought of losing her most beloved brother ate the young princess alive. But if the least she could do for him as a parting gift was granting him his final wish–

“I-I will do it,” Polyboea wiped her tears away, mustering all her might to answer him, “For you.”

Though her voice was as quiet as a mouse's squeak, Hyacinthus heard her. Hyacinthus placed his sister's hand on his chest and mumbled just as quietly, “Thank you.”

.

.

.

.

.

Laying on the tall and sharp-edged grass wasn't the most comfortable thing for a person. But Hyacinthus did not move an inch since his back had rested on the dampened bed of greenery, not minding the scathing on his skin. His violet eyes stared at the sky as it shifted from dark indigo to a lighter hue of amber, anticipating the arrival of the glorious god Apollo - the subject of his maniac worship.

Many sunrises and sunsets had passed, yet he was still pining over a phantom in his imagination, refusing to let go. Oh, how he had languished for love. He loved the god with all his heart, body, and soul. He loved the god so much that it bled .

His throat constricted with the burning rash, taking in barely any air along with the intense floral scent. Flowers crept up Hyacinthus' scorching lungs, bringing the intensely sweet scent that burned his throat and nostrils. His air intakes were getting more laborious, resulting in muffled choking as his hands frantically grasped the fabric at his chest. Amidst the empty field, no one could hear the young prince's wet coughs and gasping in his final hours.

It's getting harder to breathe. His time is running short.

At the final stage, the blossoms flourish throughout their respiratory system, and the victim will eventually succumb to a suffocating death.

The pain was writhing. The agony hazed his consciousness, distorting his sense of time. With another built-up urge to vomit impending, Hyacinthus whipped his head aside to heave out another mouthful of acidic fluid dissolved with strings of blood. Tears clouded his eyes, so Hyacinthus did not notice he hadn't coughed up petals but fully-formed flowers.

The flowers slicked on the retching puddle rested still as any would before shaking ever so slightly. When Hyacinthus looked up again, he saw a flower stem had risen where there weren't moments ago: a tall, deep green stalk with multiple clusters of purple. It was a strange flower none had seen before, with a scent Hyacinthus had had burning in his nose for as long as love had stricken him. His body would nourish this new creation - these bleeding petals would become his legacy, what others would have left of him to remember.

Hyacinthus knew his death was inevitable - the ending he had expected long ago. Yet he felt strangely at peace in his final moment. The floral scent once scathed his organs like roaring flames, now soothed his decelerating heart and weakening lungs.

The flower could not live without sunlight. But sunlight would burn the flower with its powerful rays. And, yet, the flower had loved its sunlight to the last breath. He would not regret a thing.

Morning came, and the slender fingers of sunlight unveiled the misty clouds to make way for their descending upon the earthly realm. Velvet ribbons of yellow danced among the dew-heavy grass and the motionless body of the young prince. Basking under the new warmth that chased away the freezing night, Hyacinthus allowed leaden eyelids to fall over his vision with a soundless sigh, with his youthful face relaxed in blissful calmness.

In the welcoming darkness, he listened to the rustling of the leaves and flowers as hundreds continued to bloom in a vibrant shade of purple and swallowed the remnants of him, forever mingling into his flesh and bones.

Let me be here under your light, forever reaching for your warmth.

Let me continue loving you, as I have always done.

I love you, Apollo.

Chapter Text

Apollo thought he knew all the landscape of Greece during his extremely long life. He was, however, proven wrong when he saw a field near the banks of the Eurotas River that was occupied solely by a species of strange purple flowers - he couldn't recall ever seeing them before.

The gentle winds that heralded the arrival of spring swayed the tall flower stems toward where the god stood, giving the illusion that the blossoms were waving their curled petals and beckoning him to join them. Their vibrant hues and spicy-sweet scent entranced the god, luring him to walk over to the edge of the field, crouch down, and caress one of the flowers with his finger.

“Those were hyacinths.”

The god turned to look at the maiden who was approaching him. Since Apollo had contained himself in a mortal form, the maiden must have assumed he was a foreigner to this land.

“Lovely, aren't they?” She asked him when she saw him examining the flowers.

“Indeed, they are,” Apollo replied, “Who grew them?”

As the maiden stood by the flowers, Apollo could sense the melancholy from how she eyed the fresh blooming purple that rolled to the bank of the river, although her face remained as calm as the ocean during the half-moon.

“It was my brother,” finally, the maiden answered him, “He died in this field, and his body metamorphosed into the vegetation.”

A tragic end of a youth, Apollo could guess. He stood up and nodded softly at the maiden, “My condolences to your family.”

“Thank you. It's been almost a year since,” the maiden gave a soft smile that still mingled with sadness, “But he was at peace when he was gone, for his wish did come true.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow in curiosity, “How so?”

It was odd to know a human like that existed, one who wished to die while he still had such a fulfilling life. What could make a young man give up his bright future ahead?

“My brother saw his death coming and chose to embrace it,” the maiden told him, “ When he was alive, he had loved someone with his heart and soul, although his love was never answered or known. The anguish of the fruitless longing was too much for him to endure, and so it killed him.”

The maiden's hands held onto her arms as a way of self-reassuring, but a faint smile was kept on her lips nonetheless as if she knew something that the others didn't.

“But now that he had become a flower,” she continued, “He could finally love that person with all his existence. Not even death could rip him away again.”

The intriguing story fascinated Apollo. He couldn't help but wonder, “Who is your brother's beloved, if I may ask?”

“I shouldn't have called him a person,” the maiden said, “He was a god - Apollo Amyklaios.”

The reveal of his name shook the god. It hit him hard - second only after his father's lightning bolts.

He repeated, unbelievingly, “The god Apollo?”

The maiden, still oblivious to the stranger's true identity, simply nodded to confirm his wary questioning, “Yes, the god.”

Apollo almost stumbled back - he would have, but his century-long practice in composure had pulled him back. Apollo dug his sandaled feet into the patch of grass to steady himself, although his eyes found it hard to return the maiden's glance out of shame. He shouldn't have, but he still did due to his unexpected relation to the tragedy that has befallen a family.

The maiden didn't seem to mind his strange awkwardness. Her tone was lighthearted as she spoke again, “Such blasphemous my brother was, wasn't he?”

“I wouldn't call that blasphemous,” Apollo averted his gaze, “He was just in love.”

He was in love with him.

“He was in love with someone who will never know,” the maiden added.

Apollo never knew. He had never thought there was someone with such devotion to him - to the point of bringing death upon himself.

But Apollo had known now, even though everything was too late. He was pitiful of the lovesick man, even remorseful for what they could have with each other, but there wasn't anything he could do. If only he had known a little sooner.

“How unfortunate,” was all Apollo could mumble.

It was an unfortunate tale.