Flowers are not known for telling stories. More often, it is the Muses who bear the responsibility of proclaiming heroes and the quarrels of the gods—so beautiful and serene atop Mount Olympus, so lofty and distant—that poor flowers never dare enchant mortals with tales of their own, nor compare themselves to such divine beings.
And yet, amidst the murmurs of the Greeks, among the silks and satins of emperors, hidden within Spartan soil, the hyacinth flowers allow themselves to tell a story. A forgotten story, forever cradled by the warmth of the sun and refreshed by the gentle breeze of morning.
Inhale. Exhale.
How ironic it was: the wind itself had to remember how to breathe. It had shown no such restraint days before on Mount Olympus, and now it had to pay the price.
A price that smelled of fresh olives, youthful sweat, and princely confidence. A price whose dark, bronze skin gleamed beneath the morning sun, whose raven hair shimmered like the waters of the Styx, and whose face—carved to perfection like one of Pygmalion's statues—was drawn tight in concentration.
"Again."
Hyacinthus played once more.
To look upon the young man was a final blessing to the soul; to listen to him was another matter entirely. Zephyrus found it impossible to endure the lesson as the punishment it was meant to be.
"Better," Zephyrus said. "Much better."
Only days ago, he had thought Zeus would chain him to a mountain and have an eagle devour his liver each day. He had done as much to Prometheus for giving fire to mortals. Why should he not do the same when the God of the West Wind had granted the Persians the gift of windcatchers?
"Really?"
"Yes."
Hyacinthus smiled at once.
Zephyrus would invent a thousand more breeze-driven contraptions, summon as many tempests as it took, if only he could preserve that smile forever. But when he saw where the young man's eyes had turned, he realized he would do it a thousand times over if he could only make that smile belong to him.
"I, for one, thought it was enchanting."
Zephyrus closed his eyes for a brief moment.
That voice.
Of course it had to be.
Why did that captivating voice always have to interfere? Those skillful fingers, that effortless brilliance, that radiance so impossible to rival.
"No." He sighed.
"No what?"
"Don't interrupt."
"I would never interrupt a lesson."
Apollo sat beside Hyacinthus without so much as an invitation. Zephyrus hated that effortless confidence. Grinding his teeth, he watched golden hair sway as the sun god settled beside the prince, perfectly complementing his fair skin and bright eyes, framing full lips and a face of flawless, divine symmetry.
Hyacinthus tried to hide his smile.
"Zephyrus must think I'm hopeless at this."
"I don't!" he blurted, only to feel ridiculous for the outburst.
In truth, the boy was dreadful. The god's punishment had been to teach the worst lyre player in all of Greece. But they were making progress. He could feel it.
Just as he could feel Apollo's gaze lingering on him, mocking him as it did in every lesson.
"I could spend the whole afternoon listening to anything you played," the sun god said to Hyacinthus.
For all the empty flattery Apollo was so fond of, these words were genuine. He would gladly trade hours of mortal worship for mere seconds with the boy. It was as though all the endless time immortality had granted him might vanish without warning, and he was desperate to cling to every fleeting scrap of life upon the earth.
"Maybe I'll never learn." Hyacinthus muttered, lowering the lyre.
"You will." Zephyrus said.
"You will." Apollo echoed.
"As long as someone stops interrupting." The words came out sharper than intended, and from the depths of his heart, the god of the west wind wished the sun would simply go away.
"Impossible."
"Why?"
Apollo looked at Hyacinthus for a moment. His smile softened.
"Because whenever he's near... I forget what I was doing."
For a moment, there was silence.
Hyacinthus looked away, blushing.
The Wind sighed, and the breeze managed to lessen the crimson flush upon the young man's cheeks.
"Let us take a break," Apollo suggested, rising from the grass. "I believe our future great musician has learned enough for today."
He then remembered the last gift his brother Hermes had given him. This time, he had not allowed himself to be deceived by his brother's persuasion, the same persuasion that had once convinced him to trade an entire herd of cattle for a lyre. No, he was far more mature now. He had traded with the Messenger God the very concept of a harp for a disc. A golden, shining disc, as radiant as the king of stars himself.
"It shines like your vanity," Hermes had said as he handed him the object. "And its intensity resembles your love."
"You wound me, brother," Apollo had replied. "If you claim that my love for myself and my admirers is so brilliant, then you take me for a selfish god."
"I am not speaking of your self-love," Hermes said, concealing a mischievous smile behind his wings. "I speak of another kind of love. The kind that dwells in the home of the olive trees."
Now Apollo understood.
He looked at his golden-adorned metal disc, and then at Hyacinthus. His skin gleamed beneath the sunlight, reflecting its brilliance just as his eyes did. His dark skin seemed soft and lustrous. Like olives. Like olive branches.
Apollo smiled, amused by the accuracy of his brother's remark.
"What are we supposed to do with that?" the boy asked, interrupting his reverie. "It's very beautiful, but what is it for?"
"I think it was made to be thrown," Apollo guessed. He had little notion of the disc's purpose, but its beauty and brilliance alone were enough to capture his interest. "Would you like to throw it with us?" he asked Zephyrus.
The West Wind, meanwhile, was making his way toward the shade of a fig tree, visibly irritated by the interruption of the lesson.
"It is a foolish game," he replied. "And I am tired. I shall rest."
Apollo and Hyacinthus began a childish game, in which one would throw the golden object toward the other, who would catch it and repeat the process. Hyacinthus, lacking the posture and endurance of a god, constantly tumbled into the grass, provoking bursts of laughter. Every so often, Apollo would throw himself to the ground as well, pretending to fall, delighting in the laughter it earned him.
Zephyrus watched with disgust.
He grabbed a handful of figs and let their juice stain his chin as he ate, observing the pair as though his soul itself was rotting. The hatred he felt at every laugh consumed his body. He scrubbed the red fruit juice from his hands with fierce intensity, as though wiping away blood.
Hyacinthus looked so happy. So light and serene, even amid the absurdity of such a game.
Yet surely he had been far happier during their lessons. Surely he ought to have preferred the company of the gentle breeze rather than exposure to the sun's burning and unpredictable heat. Winds were fresher. It was far more pleasant to remain at Zephyrus' side, surrendering oneself to the coolness of the air and the soft melody of the lyre.
He thought of all the pleasures Hyacinthus was missing. He fled from the sun into the trees' shade and devoured fig after fig, taking savage bites and hurling them to the ground.
And then, no longer able to bear it, he sighed.
He released all that frustration, all that sense of injustice, in that brief breath poisoned by wrath, tossing the last fig from the tree onto the grass.
The fruit struck the earth and burst apart, spilling its fresh red juice.
The sound it made was loud.
But not nearly as loud as the sound of Hyacinthus' skull splitting in two.
Apollo did not yet understand. He could not comprehend why the disc was suddenly covered in blood. Later, he would ask Hyacinthus how such a thing had happened.
"Hyacinthus," he groaned, kneeling beside the young man's fallen body. Soon his feet were stained by the blood flowing freely from his head.
"Hyacinthus. Hyacinthus."
The name was repeated until it became little more than a whisper.
He looked toward the fig tree, now empty, and felt the urge to strangle Zephyrus. But he could not do that yet. First he had to shield the young man from seeing him in such a state of fury.
And then, taking him into his arms, Apollo screamed.
For the first time in millennia, he did not use the voice that had so enchanted mortals to compose beautiful and poetic melodies.
He screamed.
The agony in his voice scraped his throat raw, flooding the surrounding lands, making the earth tremble and the sky tear apart, as though it too had been struck by the golden disc.
"It will be alright."
His tears dampened the full lips that would never smile again.
"You will play the lyre again. And I will help you. You will play so beautifully..."
His fingers caressed the cold face.
"My hands," whispered Hyacinthus.
His head, resting against the god's chest, stained the white tunic until its whiteness became entirely red.
"I can no longer feel them. I will never play again."
"Do not say that! You will play so beautifully that you will ascend Olympus with me. And we shall play forever. With the Muses. Ah, you will adore them..."
"Apollo."
His voice was a distant whisper, weak as the setting sun.
"Are you sad?"
"Why would I be sad? I am with you. And I can hardly wait for you to stand so we may play again."
Hyacinthus smiled.
"That is good. You are the sun. You must not be sad."
Apollo cried out his name again and again, desperately trying to bring the boy back to life.
But no matter how much he shook his body, nor how fervently he prayed and begged, those eyes would never open again. That body would never gleam like olives beneath the sunlight.
It became, forever, a pale, cold, lifeless thing.
Never again would he furrow his beautiful brow in concentration. Never again would he feel the wind in his hair, just as he would never again feel the warmth of the sun.
The next day, the sun rose weak and sorrowful, lacking the strength to climb the sky. From dawn onward, Sparta was deprived of wind, and the heat tormented mortals.
Hyacinthus, however, did not feel sweat cling to his brow.
With the last of Apollo's strength, his dead body was transformed into purple petals upheld by green stems and living leaves. There he could remain and listen to Apollo play the lyre for all eternity.
The flowers, named after the young man, regained their vigor whenever sunlight touched their leaves. Apollo came to tend and sing to them, as he would for thousands of years to come. For one hour each day, the sun would burn more fiercely upon that hill, while the wind refused to appear. Lyres and harps would be played, and not a single breeze would be felt.
Only after the sun's departure would Hyacinthus' flowers feel the wind attempt to reach them, seeking them as though for a kiss, yet never touching even a single bloom.
For throughout all eternity, they would turn away from the wind's guilty pleas and forever face the light of the sun.