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Apollo was no stranger to grief. How could he be when he loved so frequently? He knew everytime that it wouldn’t last. Gods forbid the fates ever let one of his relationships end without a premature tragedy. But how was he supposed to stop, when they made him feel so good? A life without love or romance was not one Apollo was willing to live, so he continued this cycle of despair that had the highest of highs yet the lowest of lows.
So yes, you could say Apollo should’ve been prepared for Hyacinthus’ demise. But he wasn’t. No amount of preparation in the world could’ve prepared him for the sight of lover’s body, blood trickling out of his head and onto the ground below, his face one of joy before recognizing these were his final moments. Apollo wept and wept until he could no longer, yet it did little to soothe the overpowering heartache he felt. His tears were for his love, for all the things they could’ve been, all the memories they could’ve made if not for a spineless god’s jealousy.
The ground beneath Apollo was wet with his tears, wet like the ground soaked with Hyacinthus’ blood, that same ground now blooming with hyacinths. Apollo couldn’t understand how everything was still normal. Hyacinthus was dead, a purple flower all that was left of him, yet the world still spun. Nothing had changed in the greater scheme of things, yet to Apollo it felt like his entire world was breaking. It wasn’t supposed to end like his, he thought, brushing his hand against the plant. Hyacinthus was supposed to be different, it was supposed to last forever. But if everything went as it was supposed to, he mused, all of Kronos’ children would be still in his stomach, and as for him, he’d have never existed.
Everything Hyacinthus and Apollo could’ve been, the things they could’ve done together, were now all impossible what-ifs, never to ever happen, only to dwell on in deep moments of grief. Nothing Apollo could do would bring him back, no matter how hard he begged Hades or Zeus or even Chaos itself would work. The best he could do was get Zephyr punished, but even that wouldn’t bring him back or heal his sorrows. After all, nobody cared about a random Spartan Prince. Nobody except Apollo.
It was moments like these Apollo wondered if it was worth it, if his sister had the right idea by being a maiden. But then the thought of Hyacinthus braiding his long golden hair, the thought of them intertwining their hands together as they stared into the endless sky, the sleeping face of Ouranos floating by, the thought of Hyacinthus’ lips brushing against his, would bring him back and remind him why he continued on.