Hyacinthus and the god Apollo

In the begening

I don't think I had ever gazed upon such beauty... the pale face, the brown hair, the eyes like eastern pearls of blue reflection, mirroring the vastest of seas. His rosy lips curled into an unripe smile, while his calloused fingers bent and skillfully manipulated a discus. I was hidden behind a plum tree, having already allowed the cart to be drawn by the seasoned oxen. Slowly, I crept closer, feeling the damp grass of the morning, soaked in the melting frost, gently caress my feet, covered only by the thin leather straps of my sandals. He saw me. But I quickly hid behind the same plum tree, my hairs standing on end, my skin covered in goosebumps, my heart racing, and breath... breath. heartbeat, heartbeat. Breath... Slowly, I tried to calm myself, but it was faster than when my fingers nimbly strum the strings of the Phorminx, or the lyre that Hermes gave me long ago after stealing the cattle.

I heard footsteps and held my breath. Come on Apollo! Thee are a god! Revered and feared... Why should you feel such anxiety for a mere mortal? I reproached myself, narrowing my eyes in fear. Suddenly, a sweet voice warmed my cheeks, and I felt as though I might die.

<Greetings... are you from around here? I've never seen you, yet your face seems so familiar...> Of course, I seemed familiar to him... I was one of the most revered gods, after all my statues stood all across the land, but without the chiton and plume, I appeared rather different now that I was dressed.

<No. I come from far away, mortal-ham! Other man...> Immediately, my fluency in language and talent for speech seemed to abandon me, terrified by the mighty arrows of Eros, that mischief-making child... I tried to adopt an air of superiority, an authority, though with a mortal who knew nothing of my identity, it was harder said than done. His cheeks, like the sun, blushed delicately, and before I could step away, he reached my brow with pale fingers, roughened by calluses, then took the plum leaf that had fallen upon my golden curls.

<Thank you...> I could only whisper, stunned, with warmth in my heart. I cleared my throat, and my mind. I needed a pretext, something to divert, or perhaps reveal myself and tell him the truth? I didn't know why, but the most sincere words, scarcely, wished to spill from my rosy lips. And then, nothing. The serene nothing. His confused expression. His eyes. A serene and warm nothing. A tightness in my heart. A light, cool breeze through the trees. His pearls. And the serene nothing.

I dared to step forward, but then, regretting my action, I withdrew behind my imposing figure, still in human form.
<Reveal your name then, and tell me of your lineage and station,> I commanded, my heart pounding, my chest heaving as if trying to break free from the mortal tension. He immediately straightened his posture, magnificent in every respect.
<I am the son of King Amyclas, a Spartan. My name is Hyacinthus, and I am a champion of the discus. Now it is your turn, stranger; speak of your lineage, so I may know if I owe you hospitality.> A smile escaped my lips.
<Your lineage is a source of pride, and your name carries as much honor as your beauty." At these words, Hyacinthus blushed, and for a moment, it seemed as if I were gazing upon two velvety plums instead of his ripened cheeks. He was a sweet boy, humble by nature—I could read him as easily as a book, and I was certain he could do the same with me.

The wind continued to blow through the branches until it began to hum softly, yearning. I moved towards the open space where Hyacinthus had been playing moments earlier with a wooden discus, expertly carved, though not as skillfully as the hands of a god might do. I seized the discus between my fingers, savoring the smooth wooden surface with my fingertips, and then looked Hyacinthus in the eyes.
<Stranger, you still conceal your name from me,> the young man said, adjusting his position to grip the trajectory discus. My swift fingers launched the discus, which flew through the air with a dull whirr before landing with a sharp thud, striking his palm as his knotted fingers captured it in a firm grip.