There is a reason why lovers meet in the dark. Night is the time for love. All the lovers' vows and declarations, the soft words and gentle phrases — they emerge sweetly, fully formed, under the forgiving light of the moon. Indeed, it is the sun that kills. The endless cycle of the unceasing day draws out love's longing and burns it until it shatters under the light's harsh glare. And Apollo, lord of the light and lost love, smiles, his eyes cold and sharp like the shards of his sun-drenched heart. The Fates have all of us enmeshed in their shining web of tears and death and aching hearts. No one can escape. Not even gods.
Once, in ages long past, the great god Apollo was in love. His beloved, Hyacinthus, had many admirers. Most of them were mortals: singers and warriors and poets. But among them was Zephyr, god of the west wind, who liked the way Hyacinthus's dark hair ruffled in the breeze. But for Hyacinthus, there was only Apollo — bright eyes, golden skin, a laugh that could chase off all the unhappiness in the world.
One beautiful morning, Hyacinthus suggested that the two of them go on an excursion. This was because, though he did not admit it, he was itching for a chance to prove himself. He was a fine athlete. He ran faster than almost any man he knew. Almost. He was a competent archer too, and could hit his target most of the time, but not always. Yes, he knew he was mortal and it did not pay to be proud, but he never felt his mortality so keenly as when he was with Apollo. He had seen how every arrow notched in Apollo's bow struck its target, how every javelin, every discus he threw soared in a perfect arc, piercing the open sky. He thought about how, on their most recent trip together in the mountains, Apollo had leapt over rocks, swift-footed, deadly. He then watched with amusement as Hyacinthus stepped cautiously along the path, minding every stone.
"The mountains are treacherous," Hyacinthus said. He always felt the need to explain these things; gods did not think like mortals. "A single misstep could send me plummeting to my death."
Then Apollo was perplexed. "I see, " he said and he pondered for a moment. "If you fall, I will catch you." He said this like a charm, a spell, to ward off the disease of mortality. And not even the singing of the muses could capture how they had looked at each other then — the radiant smiles, and the kisses that tasted like the height of summer.
On fateful this day, Apollo and Hyacinthus made their way to an open field. That was the best place to toss a discus. There was nothing in sight but the grass and the ragged clouds in the sky.
Unbeknownst to them, Zephyrus too, had been sewn into their fates. He watched from a distance. In his mind, jealousy festered. He already knew what he was going to do. He was Zephyr, god of the west wind, and he could move the winds of the world with nothing but a thought.
Apollo readied himself for the first throw. He held the heavy stone discus firmly in his hand. In one fluid motion, he swung, and released. The discus soared like the sun in flight.
But then it happened. The wind, it changed direction. And the discus fell to the ground, that great stone weight which Apollo had thrown so perfectly. It bounced — and hit Hyacinthus right in the head.
He fell to the ground. Apollo let out a cry and rushed to him. Frantically, he pressed every healing herb he knew against the deadly wound. No breath, no pulse, no life. Not even a flicker. No one can deny the Fates their blood. Apollo, god of light and healing, cradled his lover's lifeless body and sobbed.
Slowly, Zephyr approached them. "Mortals, they break so easily," he said, perplexed, like a child who had broken a toy and was deciding whether or not to cry.
Apollo turned on him in a fury. "Why? I knew it was you. I knew it! I never miss, I never, never — " and he choked. "I said I would catch him…"
"You could always… find another one."
"Get out of my sight before I kill you. Go!"
"Impossible. We are gods, you and I."
Apollo trembled in rage.
"I loved him too, you know. I loved him to death," Zephyr said, quietly. For a while, he thought of saying something more, but then he felt a slight twinge in his heart. It saddened him. And so he drifted away. It is only to be expected. Winds are fickle.
Blood seeped into the soil. Mortals, they break so easily. Apollo's tears burned like the blistering sun.
And so it was that the soul of Hyacinthus fled down to meet the warm embrace of the dark. Yet, it is said that from his blood, a flower bloomed. It was a flower most fair and sweet: the short-lived hyacinth.
As for Apollo, the years dragged into a wretched eternity. His love was lost in the land of the dead, and that way was barred to him forever.
Now, he dances with the nymphs along the rivers and in the fields and high on Mount Parnassus. He douses himself in wine. He sits at the table of the gods at Olympus, and his laughs ring hollow. He slings his arrows into the hearts of heroes, like animals in the hunt. He sings songs, strumming his lyre, until all those who hear him shudder and weep, because there is no heart big enough to hold so much sorrow. Only Apollo's eyes remain dry.
But night comes again. It always, always comes again. And when it comes, Apollo's callous smile slips from his face. He kneels by the ground and his gaze softens over the sight of that flower, the delicate hyacinth, its petals deep-blue and curling on the edge of sleep. So Apollo lies down among the hyacinths. And there, in the soft embrace of the night, he sleeps. His dreams are as boundless as the stars.