by Indiya Harvey
Apollo weeps as the blood seeps through his fingers.
He is always startled by the colour of it. Not honey-tinged, like his own sparkling ichor, but darker, like pomegranates in late summer, or the wine drank in goblets upon the peaks of Olympus. He has seen it before, had been there at its conception, and yet he had always thought the stuff was tainted, in some subtle but essential way. Like Death had brewed it in his image, baring his own raven complexion and the metallic scent of his blade.
He tries to stem the flow as much as he is able, but it comes from the man’s skull like water from a river mouth. It washes over Apollo’s graceless hands, which tremble and rend dandelions from their stems, searching for something that could turn back time or tidy the mess before him. Meanwhile the blood trails into a stream, like the last rays of a star long dead.
The body soon stills upon the grass. Apollo’s tears fall like summer rain.
“Apollo,” says Hades. He is there with them now, looming over them an arm’s length away. “Give him to me.”
Apollo’s voice is a broken thing. “Uncle,” he says, and the words strangle him. “Let him stay.”
Something savage flashes in Hades’ eyes. “You are a god,” he hisses. “His life is nothing to you.” The meadow itself seams to recoil, as if to escape the frigid wrath of the Undertaker.
Apollo embraces the body tighter, almost cravenly. “Please,” he croaks.
Hades is bedrock, unmoved by the tears that slide down the damp cheeks of the younger god. “You have known mortals before. What is so special about this one?”
Apollo freezes and considers his answer. ‘Special’ and ‘mortal’ had always been a foreign concept to the gods, a paradox. Mortals could not level cities. They could not see the future, could not control the seas or the skies.
Perhaps they do not need to, he thinks.
Perhaps it is on Earth, in its fleeting vibrancy, where mortals create their own miracles. Not vast spectacles, meant to be revered and worshipped, but small acts of holiness which are immortalised in those who remember them. The last knowing glance at the end of a goodbye. Words which are venerated still, weeks after they are spoken.
Such things, though short-lived, must begin somewhere. Apollo recalled the evening it happened, the sky bruised purple in the dusk. The birds trilled in their nests, as Apollo’s deft fingers strummed on his lyre. It had come from his half-brother, Hermes: 7-stringed, its base carved from shining tortoise shell and engraved at its arms. The trees sighed in its melody, the breeze hummed, and the streams crooned, as Apollo put the meadow to sleep.
“You’re making an awful racket.”
Apollo paused. A voice. A mortal’s voice. He could tell by its shrillness, unlike the smooth and level tone of his brothers and sisters. Its owner loomed before him, backlit by the dying light of the sun. He was tall and lean, with bronze skin and black hair, which spilled over his shoulders and onto his cloak. The colour of it, Apollo noted, was rare. Dyed bright carmine, a result of crushed insects and labouring hands; expensive.
“You are the prince,” Apollo said. “Hyacinthus, I suppose.”
“And you are a god. Why are you here?”
Hyacinthus regarded Apollo with a cool, steady gaze. Apollo was used to mortals kneeling before him, worshipping everything he touched. This prince was different.
“They do not like my music on Olympus. I find the birds appreciate it more.”
Hyacinthus smiled wryly, and then released a lofty chuckle. “It is growing on me.”
Thus began their camaraderie, the easiness of their jokes, the passing summer days spent lounging in the sun. One such afternoon, Hyacinthus had asked him what his godhood felt like.
“You must feel powerful,” Hyacinthus guessed. He was plucking flowers from the meadow and knitting them together.
Apollo could not answer. In truth, his divinity did not feel like anything; there was a stillness to godhood that he could not shake, like a pebble on a riverbed. Ever touched by the weight of the cosmos shifting around him, but unable to move with it, eroded, slowly, by his own changelessness.
“I do not know,” he replied. “What does your mortality feel like?”
Hyacinthus considered for a while, his brows creasing lines into his forehead. ¬“Like the sea, moving out to low tide. Or the wind in the trees.” He shook his head. “Like the way the world moves with each other, if only for a short time. I will be here for a short time, and I have met you.” He plucked a flower from his garland and cast it into the stream, watching the petals bob in the water.
I will be here for a short time, and I have met you. Apollo wondered what it must feel to be finite. To feel the air in your lungs and have each breath count toward something. To hear I love you and know it may be the last time you receive the words, to cherish them more for it. To be something by being nothing. To be there and to be gone.
The blood is drying under Apollo’s fingernails. Hades is still there, lurking icily in the gloam. He will wait for an answer; he has time.
So, Apollo speaks. Hyacinthus, and his figure in the twilight. You’re making an awful racket. Hyacinthus, and his wry smile. It is growing on me. Hyacinthus and his pink cheeks, his steady gaze, his garland upon the grass. I will be here for a short time, and I have met you.
When he is finished, Hades is gone. The body, limp and cold, is gone too. In its place is a flower, carmine red, a memory of the man before him. The breeze stirs its delicate stem, and Apollo watches as its petals are cast into the stream.