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A second.
That’s all it took.
A single, lonely, second, for the discus to be thrown off its course, for it to hit Hyacinth’s head and leave him laying on the ground, and for Apollo to scream louder than he ever did in his godly existence.
He rushed to his lover’s side, the blood was gushing from his head, having already tinted the grass beneath, staining Apollo’s tunic and hands.
“No, no no please-” the god pleaded, prayed, to the skies, “please Hyacinth you can’t-” he was talking without reason, crying in a primordial and instinctual way, as he watched life leave Hyacinth’ eyes.
He tried to heal him with powers, with whatever herbs laid near them, but he couldn’t, it was a fatal blow. And even if he could, the man stopped him.
As Apollo cradled his head in his lap, tears mixing with blood, Hyacinth slowly raised his hand to caress the god’s perfect face. “Apollo” he said, straining “you can’t heal me, I can feel it”. Apollo, wracked by sobs, managed to tear his eyes from the blood on the ground, to look at his lover one last time.
“I don’t want you to go” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind the man’s ear.
He couldn't stand the way Hyacinth’ eyes were becoming more and more unfocused by the second, how he felt his breath be more and more strenuous, how he could see just how pale he looked beneath the afternoon sun.
“My love” whispered the mortal, “my love…” he smiled absentmindedly, using the last of his life to cling to Apollo’s neck, raise himself from the ground and place a feather-light kiss on the Olympian's lips. And with that, he was gone.
His body dropped in Apollo’s arms, and the deity once again could do nothing but scream. He screamed until his throat was sore, sobbed until his eyes felt heavy and pained, and clung to the body like a lifeline. No other mortal approached the scene. In that moment, the god willed the space around him to remain empty. He didn’t want any other mortal by his side, or by Hyacinth’s side.
When night came, Apollo laid the corpse gently back on the ground. The blood on his tunic was dry, and it was now a deep red, almost brown.
He felt empty. He felt soulless.
He began to walk, and didn’t stop. Not through the tears, not through the pain of his heart, not when he felt the wind rise against his skin, and a storm brewing in the distance. Probably a sign of his father calling him to Olympus. Maybe he heard his prayers and bothered to answer just now, too late. Maybe he wanted to ask why he didn’t lead the chariot for sunset.
He didn’t care. He had somewhere to go.
At midnight, the Olympian found himself standing before two stone pillars. A third one was balanced on top, and between these there was nothing, quite literally.
Even though they were in the middle of a forest, nothing could be seen past the threshold. As if the forest stopped, as well as the moonlight, the center of the portal was pitch black.
He stepped through, tears streaming down his face.
He was out of place in the Underworld. Despite the loss, his godly appearance barely changed. His skin appeared to be almost golden, his hair was as light as ever, his eyes fiery and burning, any mortal would’ve recognized him as the God of the Sun. Any mortal would’ve loved him.
No, that wasn’t right.
Any mortal would’ve adored him, out of reverence, out of respect, out of awe, perhaps.
But only one mortal had truly loved him. Only one had truly seen him, and now his blood stained his tunic, his hands. How could fate be so cruel?
The time they had spent together was barely even a minute compared to the eternity Apollo had lived for, and the eternity he would live. Now he had to carry a burden with him, the most excruciating one of them all: he would remember Hyacintus longer than he’d known him.
He never wanted this to happen. He expected him to have a longer life, maybe even long enough for his father to let him bring him to Olympus, so they could be together amongst the gods, so his love could shine alongside him.
But that was not the story he found himself the main character of.
As he arrived on the edge of the river Styx, he could feel the energy of the goddess beneath him. He felt how she twisted and turned, unnerved by the presence of a deity who was not chthonic in nature. Styx was chaotic, unpredictable, a primordial goddess, nevertheless even she could recognize something was deeply wrong with Olymous’ golden child standing broken on the edge of an Underworld river.
Charon approached him, looking as surprised as Styx felt.
Apollo moved his gaze from the river, eyeing the ferryman standing in front of him.
He didn’t ask for a ride, he didn’t demand it, either.
What was spoken into existence wasn’t a question, an order, a plea or even an affirmation. It was a poem. The deity’s voice should’ve been broken, as he spent the better part of a day crying and screaming, but it wasn’t. It was clear as ever, as a bird song in the morning, as the sound of a lyra being played through celestial skies.
He spoke with the typical cadence of greek, almost musical in nature.
What was said can’t be written verbatim, not quite. It was something beyond human comprehension, something only a god could’ve pronounced.
Charon had seen every way a human could suffer. He had seen lovers torn apart by war, he had seen children murdered, he had seen people in such a state of suffering that they barely felt anything anymore, and had arrived there by their own hand.
However, Apollo’s words were the first to make him shed a tear. They enchanted the space between with such sadness, the river almost stopped flowing, the ground shook.
Without saying a word, Charon invited him aboard.
The god then continued his journey across the foreign terrain, souls keeping a distance, and monsters looking at him almost curiously.
Once he arrived at Hades’ fortress, the palace’s doors opened by themselves.
He crossed Persephone’s garden, then found himself in the throne room.
There, Hades sat, waiting, in his usual form, which really wasn’t that far off from his true godly self. On his head was a crown, made of obsidian, from which two appendages protruded, resembling two horns going upwards. His bident was propped against the side of his throne.
He wasn’t wearing his helm of invisibility, so his long, black hair flowed on his shoulders. He dressed in a simple, long, black chiton, leather sandals adorned his feet. His eyes reflected whatever little light made it into the room, much of it now coming from Apollo’s godly form. He didn’t have a beard, unlike his two brothers, and his face was tense with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Perhaps he didn’t expect Apollo to actually come all this way for a mere mortal.
The king of the Underworld was leaner than Zeus, but still quite strong. No human would dare to fight him, typically no human spoke in his presence, as they remained too awestruck and terrified.
Hades, as of that day, expected a fight.
“θεός του ήλιου ” The words echoed in the room. They weren’t accusatory, not yet.
“What do you want?”
Apollo advanced towards the throne, and Hades rose to his feet. He had heard the wailing, the crying, the prayers. As tragic as it was, there was nothing he could do. He imagined the young god wanted to fight him on it, as he, like his brother Zeus, tended to get angry when things didn’t go how he desired. Apollo wasn’t as cruel, or fear-inspiring, though, so he often fought those who opposed him (if they happened to be gods; if they were mortals, they simply found themselves dead before having a chance to back down).
But the god standing in front of him didn’t fight, didn’t make a demand.
He, instead, fell to his knees.
Hades brandished his bident and walked down the steps to the center of the room, where Apollo was, with his head down. He almost took pity on him, as he had truly never seen him so heartbroken, so desperate.
“Young god, I can’t bring him back, you must know that”
The words had no malice to them, no resentment. It was a constatation, simple as that, with no intent of being a sour reminder, Hades was only speaking the truth.
He knew love, and he knew it was often short lived between humans and deities.
A sob wracked Apollo upon hearing the words.
“Nobody answered my prayers, not my dad, not you-” his tone rose with righteous fury, as he tilted his head to stare at the King. “I didn’t count on any of you to save him” he growled, fire grazing his skin.
Hades sighed. He was right, no one answered. No one even offered reassurance, it seemed, as Phoebus stood there with his tunic still bloody, his eyes still wet from the tears. He looked no different than the lost boys Hades saw roaming the Underworld, as the god before him was known for his youthful appearance, his eternally long hair; loss and pain striking his young face, appearing out of place in his feature, which more often than not were inhabited y joy and happiness as he sang and danced with the Muses.
“-but I am not here for that”
The words astonished Hades. Usually, gods requested more time with their loved ones, for them to be free from death’s embrace. Of course, Hades didn’t let them be. He was the keeper of death’s doors, cruel as it was, everyone was the same upon death.
“Why did you come here, then?”
Apollo bowed.
“The Fates, they have you as their King, and they control the thread of life of each one of us, each one of them, right?”
“That is correct, but what-”
“Cut mine.”
The King’s eyes went wide with shock.
He hadn’t misheard. Apollo’s words were impossible to misheard, as his voice was the clearest Olympus ever heard and ever will hear.
The air was tense with emotion. Hades didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say.
“Have you heard me? Cut my thread” Apollo raised his head, “I can’t have him on the living world”
He stood up, there was fire in his eyes and lining his body, making a shiny outline appear and illuminate the room. He was as tall as Hades.
“Apollo, your thread can’t be cut…”
“So make me a mortal!”
“Why would I?” the king asked, starting to become exasperated by this debacle.
Apollo started to pace the room impatiently, seemingly not finding solace in anything, while he talked with the same fervor Hades had seen in men who lost all reason.
“Set me upon the humans, let me live with them so that I could die with them. Please, Hades, I can’t...I can’t live without him, you don’t understand.
I want to be with him, and if I can’t have him in life I’ll find him in death. I- I need to be where he is. I had never felt this pain before. It’s as if a part of my soul is dead, as well. As if there’s a hole inside of me, which can’t be filled again, and I could, you know, I could hope . I could spend my days hoping some other god- maybe my son Asclepius, with his medicine; or my father, Zeus, with his authority- will bring him back to me. But I know it is vain, I know I would just delude myself, and so whatever hope I would have would be the same as mold on fruit, as rot, taking me over and driving me to live yet another day.
I know if I go back, if I continue to live, he’s going to be my last thought before sleep, the first in the morning, the one I dream about. No, I mustn’t, I can't, it's all too much. And so, if life won’t give me back Hyacinth, and hope won’t suffice, then let me die. Let me have death, so I can have him, in your kingdom, please…I beg of you, spare me an existence spent without his embrace. I have known it, and now I can’t do anything else other than remember it”
As soon as he finished speaking, Apollo bent over with sobs so powerful, they shook him in a tremendous way, for the umpteenth time that day.
He wailed, and screamed, shouting about his love, about his loss, about everything he had felt with Hyacinth, everything he couldn’t have once again.
He took Hades’ hands in his.
“Please, please just kill me, stop this pain”
Apollo’s skin was hot to the touch, glistening with fire beneath. His eyes were clear, yet mad with grief.
Hades didn’t know what to say, or even how to say it, he found it in himself to talk just after a few minutes, the young god still holding on.
“I…I can’t kill a god, I’m sorry…”
Apollo's eyes were determined.
It was the wrong kind of desire.
It was a moth searching for the flame, it was a fly flying into the spider’s web to search for shelter; a lamb drinking from the same pond as the wolf, with no intention of turning away once the chase started. It was a sick determination, the one humans had when they drank with no rhyme or reason when they wanted to numb the pain, the one that led to sabotage of the self, akin to a sailor who braved the storm, with no intention of surviving it.
Gently, as to not frighten him, Hades’ hand moved close to Apollo’s face, grazing his skin ever so lightly with his fingertips.
“Death is unfair, I know, however I can’t kill you. You’re a god, you know that wouldn’t work.
Besides, even if it would work, what then?
Love…believe it or not, it’s the most present feeling here in the Underworld.
Humans love, so fiercely, and that’s what tethers them to…well, to being human. They may lose themselves in the Meadows of Asphodels, or be joyous in Elysium for decades without pause, but they never forget their love. And humans above, too. They grieve because they loved, they fear me because they love being alive and sharing each other’s existence, they do anything to try and escape this realm, and to keep those they love away from me.
This pain you’re feeling, it’s so great because your love was even greater. It’s excruciating, and torture to live through, but it will become manageable. I’m sorry, Ἀπόλλων Φαναῖος, I can’t let you die, I must let you live”
Apollo’s hands dropped to his sides, his expression going blank.
Steps echoed in the room, not quite filling the silence, but breaking the tragic atmosphere, if only for a second, as both gods turned to see who it was.
Persephone approached them with a concerned, yet collected, look on her face.
The Queen of the Underworld was wearing a long, black, flowing chiton, one that might be deemed fit for a ceremony, fancy as it was. The sleeves were made up of veils that flowed elegantly and shimmered under the dim light of the room, appearing as made of moonlight. From her neck hanged a dark pendant, a ruby gemstone. On her head stood an obsidian crown, similar to Hades’ own, but forming the shape of a crescent moon in the center. Her long, brown hair was braided and intertwined with dark flowers and vines, seeming to grow perfectly in darkness.
She approached the two of them with her head raised high, locking eyes briefly with her husband, exchanging a quick, silent conversation without saying anything aloud. The king stepped back, as Persephone put a hand on the god’s shoulder, giving him a sympathetic smile.
She was tall, more so than Hades, so Apollo had to look up. Even being a minor deity, the humans and the gods equally feared her, and loved her. She brought spring, made the Earth bloom and overcame it with abundance. All the same she could be cold and strong as any of the other Olympians, as the chthonic goddess she had become; a role which many may have thought she would fail at, but that she executed very well. She, as her mother, was nature, and nature was savage, sparing no mercy for who wasn’t kind to it.
When she spoke, her voice was soft and decisive all the same. It didn’t break or falter, though it was still heavy with emotion.
“Bright one, I heard your wails, both from above and from my palace.
What happened to Hyacinth has been unfair, that is for certain. You can’t let him go unseen”
With those words, she grabbed Apollo’s hands in hers.
“What I wanted was to be with him, not-”
“I know, you wanted more” she interrupted him, but Apollo did not protest. She was calm, collected, despite the sadness, it managed to seep into him, quieting his nerves. A regal aura permeated her, and in her eyes shone perseverance, the same one flowers have in order to bloom under the snow.
“If you were to join the souls, who could remember Hyacinth? Surely no one can do better than you, who loves him so ardently”
As Apollo listened, he felt the dry blood be cleared from his body. He looked down where his hands had been kept close by Persephone’s, and he watched as a pale red light formed in his palm. Then the Queen pried open his fingers, delicately, to reveal a seed which had formed in his hand.
“Go in the realm of the living and plant this seed. It will take the form your soul desires, and from it shall grow a flower carrying your lover’s name, The humans will cherish it, and remember it, and your love will never be forgotten”
Persephone’s cupped Apollo’s face in her hands, drying a few tears that spilled from his fiery eyes.
“Life can't exist without death, and death can't be without life, but love transcends the both of them. Love perseveres through everything. You will love again, and you will experience loss again, and to flee from the loss means to flee from life”
The god leaned into her touch, cherishing the comfort she offered, then crumbled in her arms, hugging her and leaning his head on her shoulder. She didn’t push him away.
To him, it all seemed like too much, too crushing of a weight. He didn’t know what to think, what to do, who to be. He felt disgustingly human, yet impossibly godly. He wanted him. He wanted him.
He broke the embrace first, letting the queen adjust his hair. In his hand, the seed seemed to burn his skin. He analyzed it, noting just how red it was.
Finally, he found it in himself to speak again.
“They will remember?”
Persephone gently nodded.
“Yes, they will”
He looked her in the eyes, silently pleading.
“How do you know?”
She smiled brightly,
“I should ask you, Apollo”
The realization hit him. He knew what to do.
He would plant the seed made of blood in the ground, it would grow and spread throughout the land. And, as it’d grow, Apollo would sing.
Humans never forget a song, or the message transported by it.
As much as it pained him, he had to, for his beloved, to keep him alive in some ways.
As the sun rose the next day on the mortal world, a man laid still in the grass. All around him, red flowers had begun to spread, fascinating the humans who found him.
That day the king of Spartha mourned his son, and the people mourned a prince.
He was buried at the feet of a statue of the god with long, fair hair, since the man had insisted, in his life, that being loved by Apollo, and loving him in return, was the greatest gift he received.
As the sun rose, a god above weeped, as his love had killed.