Written by Catherine Margaret Hodge
An imagining of the events directly after the death of Hyacinthus, Apollo’s lover.
He had been born of the sun, Apollo had teased, stroking his hair one morning. He had laughed at that; reminding him that no, he had been born of a woman in Sparta. He had shook his head, it had been almost impossible to imagine it. That Hyacinthus in all his brightness, all his beauty, had been born of two humans. There were beautiful mortals, Apollo had known this. But none like Hyacinthus. Hyacinthus whose eyes were more akin to the open sea, whose smile was brighter than any sun Apollo had ever seen.
But he was mortal. Hyacinthus was a human man. The fact had never been more clear as his body rested upon Apollo’s lap, the blood sticky on his hands; ambrosia and medicinal herbs scattered, useless, around the pair. The discus, equally bloodied, lay discarded nearby.
To scatter the clouds, he recalled bitterly. He had wanted to scatter the clouds; had there ever been anything more pretentious? Anything more ridiculous? Perhaps this was actually more ridiculous. On his knees, surrounded by herbs and ambrosia, begging to be killed.
It was not fair. He had not been like his father and Ganymede. He had not pulled him, unsuspecting, onto Olympus, he had not betrayed a wife, and he had not forced Hyacinthus into low-level, humiliating domestic servitude.
They had spoken. They had laughed and sang and danced, the singing in particular had been wonderful. He is, was, so talented. Raw sunlight, he had called him, as pure and bright and powerful as the sun itself. And now he would be condemned to the earth below. He would never again see the clouds Apollo had smirked as he scattered. He was showing off, he knew it at the time, but he couldn’t help it. The way Hyacinthus’ eyes would light up every time Apollo accomplished something fantastical; every time he sailed the sun over the sky, every time he blessed a new mortal with the gift of prophecy, he would cast a glance to the beautiful mortal boy with those bright, adoring eyes, and it would all be worth it. He would scatter the clouds for him.
“No.” Artemis, his twin sister, stood above him. “I didn’t ask for you”, The words were bitter and cold and entirely familiar; he had denied many a wailing mortal before. “Our uncle will not kill you. It is not worth asking.”
“I want to be mortal.” The words stung, they were choked on, they were desperate. Never had he felt such a deep desire to join the earth, to abandon the sun. To be under it. To sink into the mud, where Hyacinthus now would reside. Unable to see the sun.
“You cannot be mortal, Apollo”
“And why not,” the sky above rumbled. She looked pointedly upwards. “You belong elsewhere, leave this place.” No. He could not leave. He could not leave him here.
“Apollo. It has been hours.” No, it hadn’t. It couldn’t have been. It had been only moments ago that the discus sailed into the sky, only minutes ago had the damned thing come crashing down with such force it took Hyacinthus from him. Mere seconds since he threw the ambrosia to the side and cursed loudly, recklessly, to anyone who would listen.
“The sun must set. You must leave.” And leave him? With nothing? No burial shroud? No mourners? No wailing men? No women mad with grief? No music? He would be forgotten. That was always the way.
“Artemis-”
“Charon is waiting for him, Apollo, it will be-”
“It will not be okay.” She closed her eyes, “He is mortal, brother. You are not. It is always the way.”
It was always the way. But it was not enough. They had not had enough time together. Hyacinthus was gone. And Apollo was still here. Surrounded by blood, ambrosia and herbs that did nothing in the end.
Eventually, the God of the Sun gently placed the body of Hyacinthus onto the ground and hummed a sad song to himself. And from the blood, a new flower bloomed. A blue flower. Not as blue as the open sea. Not as bright as the sun. But a flower, nonetheless. And there it would remain. For he could not.
“Very lovely, Brother,” Artemis murmured.
“My true songs
will always celebrate you. A new flower
you shall arise, with markings on your petals,
close imitation of my constant moans:
and there shall come another to be linked
with this new flower, a valiant hero shall
be known by the same marks upon its petals.”
Ov. Met. 10.143-219
Featured Image Credit: Rijksmuseum, Nederlands: IdentificatieTitel(s): Apollo Betreurt de Dood van HyacinthusObjecttype, ca. 1700 1639, ca. 1700 1639, http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.collect.76063, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=85031243.
Retrospect Journal 