“Hyacinthus.”

A flash of blinding light – my hands spring up to the side of my head – I see stars. For a torturous moment, I cannot breathe, wheezing gasps being the only ways of intaking oxygen. I stay like this for an eternity, until the setting sun finally blurs into vision – and the discus that had slammed into my temple, and then—

“Apollo.”

My head is on fire, my lips parched, but I say his name.

Indistinctly, I notice that his laurel crown is gone. His glossy locks, golden under Helios’ sun chariot, tumble loose in front of his bowed head. 

If this is the last time I will ever see him, I refuse for this to be the last image of him woven into my fading mind. I lift my hand up to his cheek – damp with tears – silently willing him to open his beautiful eyes.

He does - but his eyes are drowning in melancholy.

“Apollo…”

I muster all my fading strength into one single word, into his name. 

Do not be so sad, Apollo. I am not scared. It does not hurt.

“Hyacinthus, can you hear me?”

His voice is trembling.

I hear you. I hear you.

But my throat is too parched, my vision too blurred, and I cannot speak.

For a second, I am lost once again in the starry darkness, drifting away from consciousness. In the distance, I see twelve glittering stars gather into a blinding constellation – a man, a god. Glossy locks, golden eyes…

I take in one more breath, for him.

When I squeeze open my eyes, I am in his arms. 

My vision is becoming a field of sanguine, and I know that I do not have long. And he is in hysterics.

“I can heal you; I can heal you, Hyacinthus—”

He breaks himself short. I know one single thought runs in both our minds.

What the fates have spun for a mortal is final. No god can change what the fates have decided upon. I focus everything I have in raising my leaden arm and rest my palm on his cheek. 

It will be okay. 

His eyes meet mine, and I hope that he understands. 

I am sorry. 

I take in one more, wheezing breath, for him. For him. Everything is for him. Everything has always been for him.

When I was fourteen years old and no more than a young Spartan prince, he had appeared in all his stunning glory before me, and I had been mesmerized. His eyes, burning brighter than the sun, had captured me, and pulled me in, into their mysterious depths. 

It was the mournful tune of the lyre that broke me from my trance – a single chord, woven with the golden thread of harmony. When I raised my gaze, it was a beautiful youth that greeted me, locks of molten bronze, a single laurel crown upon his head. At once I was filled with reverence for the youth, knowing, young as I was, that I had been visited by a god. Immediately, I knelt and clasped his knees in supplication, just as my father had once taught me to. The boy, however, only laughed in bemusement – and at once I flushed with colour – had I done something wrong?

“You need not supplicate me, Hyacinthus.” His smile was far from the condescending sneer that I had thought would taint his remarkable features, but rather a more subtle, sweeter tilt of the lips. The skin around his glittering eyes had creased as he smiled, like a leaf held to flame, “I may be a god, but I come only in the hopes of befriending a young Spartan prince.”

***

“Like this.”

I watched intently as he drew, in the air, a curving arc. The path of his index finger glowed golden, then dissipated into dust, all intertwined into one eternal ballet. One single flower bloomed from the barren ground, the reddest of roses.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Hyacinthus?” He turned to me, grinning.

In awe – “It is.” I began, almost at a loss for words, “It is. It is beautiful.”

“And yet,” his eyes twinkling, he continued, “Isn’t it strange that I think you more beautiful than my most brilliant creation?”

I could barely register anything, my thoughts stalling and stuttering like static – and then his lips were on mine.

The memories that followed are all of him. But I should have known. All my life it has always been him, so it is only natural that when I pass into Hades’ halls, he is the one flashing across my mind. I try to take one more breath, to love him for just one more second, but I cannot. 

I will miss you, Apollo.

Before my eyes slide closed for the last time, I see the familiar arc of his index finger that had bloomed a red rose from the ground so many years ago, and one amethyst bud bursting into life as I slowly drift away – the Hyacinth flower.