Chapter Text
The bronze discus caught the brilliant afternoon light as it sailed gracefully through the clear Spartan sky. Prince Hyacinthus laughed, his dark curls bouncing as he tracked its perfect arc, readying his stance to catch the heavy weight. Apollo stood a few yards away, his radiant golden skin gleaming with pure, unadulterated happiness as he watched his lover move. But the joyous laughter was instantly severed by a sudden, violent howl of wind. High above the tree line, hidden within the churning currents of the air, Zephyrus—the God of the West Wind—stared down at the clearing, his features twisted into a bitter, venomous mask of raw romantic jealousy. He had watched Apollo hold the mortal prince for months, his own desperate desire for the youth morphing into a blinding, destructive rage.
If he could not have Hyacinthus, no one would.
With a brutal flick of his wrist, Zephyrus unleashed a sharp, concentrated blast of gale-force wind. The sudden atmospheric pressure slammed violently into the side of the bronze discus, forcefully blowing it off course. The heavy metal disc accelerated, hurtling downward like a falling star.
CRACK.
The sickening sound of metal fracturing bone echoed sharply across the quiet clearing. The discus struck Hyacinthus squarely in the skull, the blunt force of the impact instantly shattering his temple. Hyacinthus didn't even have time to scream. His light pink eyes rolled back beneath his eyelids, his limbs giving out beneath him as he collapsed limply onto the grass, blood instantly pooling from the severe head wound.
"Hyacinthus!" Apollo shrieked, his voice hitting a high, frantic pitch as his solar halo violently flared. Apollo blurred across the grass, dropping to his knees and scooping the mortal prince's limp body into his trembling arms. He pressed his palms firmly against the shattered skull, his divine light flaring aggressively as he tried to pour his healing domains into the wound. But it was entirely useless; the mortal thread had been cut too clean, the brain completely destroyed by the blunt force of the wind's malice.
"No, no, nononono, look at me, love, please!" Apollo sobbed, his hot tears spilling onto Hyacinthus's cooling cheeks as the boy's breathing studented, then stopped entirely. As the realization of absolute death crashed over him, Apollo let out a raw, unhinged wail of pure agony that shook the very foundations of the valley. Driven by a desperate, grief-stricken instinct to keep a physical piece of his lover away from the cold earth, Apollo focused his remaining, volatile magic. He reached down, his fingers brushing the thick, gold-tinted blood staining the soil. Under the force of his divine will, the pooling blood began to shift and grow, the deep crimson fluid morphing into a cluster of rich, beautifully blooming purple petals. The very first Hyacinth flower sprouted from the blood-soaked earth, its sweet, heavy aroma filling the clearing. Apollo fell backward, cradling the flower tightly against his chest as his golden aura completely died away, replaced by a cold, hollow grey. Far above them, the sun sank below the horizon, marking the first sunset of a night that would refuse to break for seven agonizing days.