𝐇𝐘𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒

Chapter 1

The sweet smell of pomegranate and honey wafted through the air, as Hyacinthus lied in a field, in his hand a worn out ball. His dark hair curled ever so slightly as the wind rushed in from the west,  as he put his hands up to protect his face from the wind. 

Cynortus and Araglus were with Father. Of course. As the first and secondborn, they would have the chance to rival for the throne. But Hyacinthus was the third son. He could  bathe in his luxuries that commoners would only dream of, without any responsibility of leading the kingdom when he grew up. Marriage would also serve as a problem, but he wasn't of age yet.

He had to grow old, and bald, and fat, and then he could marry. That's what it seemed to be like in Sparta. 

Leinira was promised to King Arcas of Arcadia and had to get ready for the upcoming ceremony when the king was to visit. 

The ball lay restless in his hand. He was going to play ourania, but with only one player he couldn't. He threw the ball anyway, expecting it to fall back into his lap. The west picked up the ball, flying through the air.

"What the-" Hyacinthus said, getting up, chiton flapping slightly. He raced after the ball, bouncing on the dirt roads. Huh? The soft, melodic sounds of something similar to the harp, except... different.

Hyacinthus strained his ears to hear better, to get more of that amazing melody, like a drug he craved so desperately. He could imagine hands fluttering along an instrument, delicately plucking the strings. 

The road split into two trails, the ball bouncing off to the right road. He was about to chase after the ball, but another delectable sound burst through the atmosphere, as it mimicked the sound of wild birds, tramping so freely in the woods. His feet unconsciously stumbled towards the left path, ignoring the ball completely. 

He wanted more that music. He needed more...

His sandals hit the ground, as he started to pick up the pace. He hiked up a hill, in a field of dark blue flowers. Under a poplar tree, sat the handsomest man Hycainthus had ever seen. Hair spun like molten gold, trailing down his neck in a small braid. Skin that shined like the lightest bronze, eyes like sapphire jewels. 

"Hello," He said. His voice emitted warmth and beauty, as if beckoning Hyacinthus to join him in a world of gold. "I am the god Apollo."