The sun had never shone brighter than in the days that followed. Olympus itself seemed to rejoice in the union of Apollo and Hyacinthus. The god of the sun laughed more freely. His music flowed like golden wine, and the air grew sweet where Hyacinthus walked.
But not all were pleased.
From high upon the currents of the sky, Zephyrus, god of the west wind, watched. He had once courted Hyacinthus with petals and breeze, but the boy had not noticed. Not truly. Not like he noticed Apollo.
And so Zephyrus' love curdled into envy. His winds turned bitter. Every time he saw Hyacinthus in Apollo's arms, laughter echoing, skin sun-kissed and divine-touched, something in him cracked.
"He should have been mine," Zephyrus murmured into the wind. "If I cannot have him, none shall."
---
One golden afternoon, Apollo and Hyacinthus returned to the mortal fields to play. They stood laughing in the open meadow, throwing discs back and forth. The sun was high, the grass warm, and the world itself seemed to hum with joy.
Hyacinthus threw a discus, strong and graceful. Apollo watched, admiration and desire mingling in his chest.
Then it was Apollo's turn.
He launched the discus skyward — a perfect arc. Hyacinthus ran to follow its path, eager to impress.
But from the hills beyond, Zephyrus watched. And with a breath bitter as betrayal, he summoned a sudden wind — just enough to twist the disc's flight.
It veered unnaturally.
Too fast.
Too low.
Before Apollo could shout his name, before Hyacinthus could look up—
Crack!
The discus struck his skull. The world went still.
---
Apollo was at his side in a flash, cradling him with trembling hands.
"Hyacinthus!" he whispered, voice cracking, lips stained with dust and blood. "Stay with me… please, stay."
Hyacinthus's eyes fluttered open for a moment, dazed and distant. His lips curved faintly. "You came…"
Apollo pressed their foreheads together. "Always."
But already, the color was draining from him. His breathing grew shallow.
Then still.
Then gone.
---
The sun stopped in the sky.
Apollo screamed — not with rage, but with grief so deep the mountains bowed their heads. Light fled from his skin, and all of Olympus felt it. Music fell silent. Flowers wilted.
He wept until the rivers swelled and broke their banks.
He wept until the earth cracked and trembled beneath his knees.
Zephyrus, horrified by what he had done, vanished into the far corners of the sky.
The gods gathered in silence, watching as Apollo rocked Hyacinthus's lifeless body, golden tears falling onto his beloved's bloodied curls.
"This world is not worthy of him," Apollo whispered. "But I will not let it forget."
---
At Apollo's cry, Gaia herself stirred. The Earth mother, moved by the god's grief, extended her arms.
From the ground beneath Hyacinthus, a tremor began. Where his blood soaked the soil, the earth blossomed.
From every wound, from every lock of hair that fell loose, sprouted petals — deep violet and crimson. Flowers shaped like stars, with curling edges, soft and eternal.
"Hyacinth," Apollo breathed. "You will be remembered."
The gods, witnessing Apollo's love and mourning, knew this was no ordinary mortal. And so, they did what they had done for only the rarest of souls — they made Hyacinthus immortal.
Not in body. But in form.
In every bloom that bent toward the sun.
In every breeze that carried his name.
In every spring where lovers lay in meadows, whispering their devotion.
---
For days, the sun did not move. The sky stayed cold, dim, in mourning.
But when Apollo at last rose, with tear-streaked cheeks and flower-crowned hair, the light returned.
He took the hyacinth flower in his hands and lifted it to the sky.
"Let every dawn be your name. Let every ray of sunlight be my love for you."
And so it was.
From that moment on, wherever the hyacinth bloomed, it did so with the color of memory — deep as longing, warm as touch. The petals bore the mark of grief, but also of eternal love.
But grief is not the end.
Not for gods.
Not for the beloved of gods.
For though Hyacinthus's mortal form lay buried beneath blossoms, his spirit lingered — held not by the Underworld, but by the sun.
Apollo, in his unceasing devotion, called to the Fates. He gave up part of his divine flame, and in return, the threads of destiny bent.
And one evening — long after mortals had forgotten the sound of their names, long after statues had crumbled and temples grown silent — the stars shifted.
In the sacred groves of Olympus, where no wind stirred and no time passed, Hyacinthus awoke.
Whole. Luminous.
He stood barefoot on divine grass, the air humming with power and perfume, and when he looked up, Apollo stood before him — radiant, golden, eyes shimmering with the weight of centuries.
No words passed between them. None were needed.
Apollo crossed the space between them in a heartbeat and pressed their foreheads together. His fingers found Hyacinthus's hand — warm, alive.
"You waited," Hyacinthus whispered.
"I never stopped," Apollo said, voice trembling.
They kissed beneath starlight, under skies that knew no ending.
From then on, Hyacinthus lived not just in flowers or in memory, but in Olympus eternal — side by side with the god who had loved him enough to stop the sun.
---
Epilogue: The Bloom That Remains
And so when the hyacinth flowers bloom in spring, they speak not only of loss — but of return.
Of reunion.
Of a love that crossed death and time, and came back shining.
If you listen to the wind in blooming fields, you may still hear them — not mourning, but laughing, together.
Forever.
---
The End