The sky darkened the night Hyacinthus was born. It wasn't a storm, not exactly, but the winds whispered in ways that made the earth shiver. In the palace of Sparta, the air hummed with something ancient and restless, a feeling that stretched beyond the mortal realm.
King Amyclas and Queen Diomede stood by their infant son's crib, their hearts both elated and heavy. The Oracle had visited days before, and her words still clung to the walls like shadows.
"He will be loved by gods," she had said, her voice thick with foreboding. "He will be envied by winds, mourned by the earth. Born for the gods, his destiny will be sealed."
Hyacinthus cried, his wail sharp as the winds outside, and the moment seemed to hold its breath.
Despite the quiet omens, Sparta was thrilled. They had a prince whose beauty was already legendary. Even in his swaddling cloth, the child glowed. No one could understand it—how a mortal boy could be touched by such a celestial light—but they marveled at it all the same.
---
Apollo had been watching him for some time. It wasn't unusual—gods watched mortals all the time, weaving their influence into their lives, guiding them, shaping their fate. But this… this was different.
Hyacinthus was unlike any mortal Apollo had ever seen. He wasn't simply beautiful. He was alive in a way that made the god's heart falter. There was a purity to him, a kind of raw, untouched grace that made Apollo's divine essence stir with a hunger he had not felt in centuries.
He watched from the edge of the forest one afternoon, hidden by the trees, as Hyacinthus practiced throwing a discus. The sun caught his skin, turning it into something more than mortal, and Apollo felt the pull of something dangerous—something that would make him forget his divine duties.
Without thinking, Apollo descended to earth in mortal form—a simple hunter, his hair wild like the winds, his eyes dark as storm clouds. He had no name to give, no title to claim. He was a stranger, only a man, and it was better that way.
---
Hyacinthus paused when he felt it—the shift in the air. He was near the stream, resting after his training, his hands brushing against the water's surface. The soft sound of the current was broken by a voice, smooth and unassuming.
"Beautiful day for a walk," the voice said.
Hyacinthus turned sharply. A man stood at the edge of the stream, his eyes the color of distant thunder, his hair a dark, windswept mess. He wore a simple cloak, and something about him felt both foreign and familiar.
"I didn't hear you approach," Hyacinthus said, his voice guarded.
The man smiled, a slow, knowing smile. "The earth has a way of keeping its secrets."
For a long moment, they only stared at each other, the quiet between them thick and expectant. Hyacinthus didn't know why, but his heart seemed to beat louder when the stranger's gaze fell on him.
"Who are you?" Hyacinthus asked, his curiosity growing, but part of him already knew he wasn't going to get the answers he sought.
The man's smile lingered, though his eyes were unreadable. "I'm just someone passing through. A wanderer."
"A wanderer?" Hyacinthus raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "A wanderer with eyes like the storm."
The man chuckled softly. "Perhaps. The wind has a way of stirring things inside us."
Hyacinthus swallowed hard, the weight of the man's presence pressing on him. There was something about him that made Hyacinthus feel unsteady, like the ground beneath his feet wasn't quite solid. His heart raced, not in fear, but in some longing he couldn't explain.
Without thinking, he took a step forward. The pull between them was magnetic, and his hands seemed to move of their own accord. He reached out, cupping the man's cheek with an almost frantic urgency, as though he needed to touch him—to confirm he was real.
The stranger didn't pull away. In fact, his eyes softened, and for the briefest moment, Hyacinthus thought he saw something like tenderness in them. Something ancient, but fleeting.
Hyacinthus hesitated, but only for a moment. He leaned forward, his lips meeting the stranger's. The kiss was not tentative, not gentle. It was hungry, filled with a deep yearning that had been building inside him for as long as he could remember. It was a kiss that spoke of desire, of need, of something deeper than just the surface of their bodies.
For a moment, nothing else mattered. Hyacinthus didn't care who this man was or why he felt so drawn to him. The world had disappeared, leaving only the two of them, pressed together by the water's edge.
When they finally broke apart, Hyacinthus was left breathless, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. His heart was racing, but it was no longer just the kiss that had left him breathless. It was the intensity of the moment, the feeling that he had touched something beyond this world.
The man looked at him, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, they stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken words.
Hyacinthus, still shaking, finally found his voice. "Who are you?" he asked again, his tone less confident this time.
The man's lips curled into a soft smile, but there was something distant in his gaze. "I am no one you need to know."
The words were like a quiet dismissal, and before Hyacinthus could say anything more, the man turned and began to walk away. There was no dramatic exit, no final moment of revelation. Just the soft rustle of leaves as the stranger disappeared into the forest.
Hyacinthus stood by the stream, his mind racing, his pulse still quick from the kiss. His hand moved instinctively to his lips, as if he could still feel the warmth of the stranger's touch.
But the man—that man—was gone. And Hyacinthus was left standing alone, wondering if he had imagined it all.