#apollocinthus

“My sincerest thanks, oh Golden One, for your gift,” he said at length and bowed deeply. “It shall be gratefully received by Lord Apollo and I both.”

“Take great care when you indulge in it, Hyacinthus, Prince of Sparta,” Aphrodite warned, though not unkindly. She was seated on the edge of the altar hewn in her honor, admiring the costly perfume she held in her gilded hands. It was one of several rich offerings the Spartan prince had laid out for her in exchange for her gift. “Apollo is a god, but you, on the other hand, are mortal. The passions brought forth by this tonic would be too much for one such as you to bear.”

“I understand,” Hyacinthus said. He straightened himself, but kept his gaze lowered out of respect. He also held the vial in his hands like it was a fragile jewel, for the Goddess of Love would not take kindly to the sight of him being careless with it in any way. “And I will heed your counsel. Farewell, my lady. And my humblest thanks once again for your generosity.”

The wind swiftly rose, and the air grew as sweet as the fragrance clinging to Aphrodite’s crimson robes. Still, Hyacinthus stood where he was with his head bowed. He trembled when warm hands clasped his cheeks and lips as soft as silk pressed against his brow.

“Farewell, Hyacinthus, prince of Sparta,” Aphrodite said, her voice as soft as her kiss. “I shall remember you to Apollo when I see him upon my return.”

Suddenly, the wind died as swiftly as it came, and the air grew strangely bereft of the potent scent that sweetened it before. Hyacinthus lifted his eyes. Aphrodite was gone, as were the offerings he presented to her. Nothing but a cold and empty altar remained in their stead. He took a deep, steadying breath to compose himself, turned swiftly on his heel, and walked away. He was pleased with not offending the goddess, and he was elated with the rare token he had received. It would be put to good use when Apollo called on him next.

The sun was already setting when Hyacinthus rode back to the palace accompanied by half a dozen guards who had kept to the temple garden while he prayed within. They knew nothing of what took place, and the prince uttered not a word of it to them, though he knew they were all curious. It was not his place to speak of such things unless encouraged, and Aphrodite had not encouraged him to do so. He guarded his tongue instead and talked of other matters during the chief of the journey.

“Are you preparing for the summer games, Cretheus?” He asked the soldier beside him. “Is your twin preparing for it also?”

“Every day whenever opportunity allows, my prince,” Cretheus said, glancing back over his shoulder. His brother rode right at the back, keeping a sharp eye on the bustling streets and crowded terraces they rode by. “Arion is certain he will emerge the better of us two. I, on the other hand, believe otherwise.” The captain of the palace guard and Hyacinthus’ friend of many years turned his attention back to the prince and grinned. “The others have begun a wager. What say you, my prince? Would you care to add something to the pot?”

“Perhaps I will,” Hyacinthus said, grinning also. He kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse when the gates of the palace that towered over the other homes loomed ahead of them. “See me on the morrow, captain!” He cried even as his horse cantered down a wide, unpaved path edged with twisted apple trees and myrtle shrubs. “I will have decided how much to pledge by then!”

His mother and sister were the first to greet him upon his arrival. They stood in the outer courtyard when he rode through the palace gates. The sky was now a deep violet, and the first stars were already burning brightly between wisps of darkened clouds. Slaves garbed in simple robes of charcoal gray ran to and fro, lighting torches and braziers. Soldiers would gather around them later when they sought a respite from the night’s cold.

“Cinthus,” Diomede called out to him. She stood beneath the branches of an ancient oak tree, her daughter’s hand firmly in her own. Polybea was all of nine, and too playful for her own good. Her mother did not want her to run toward the horses, lest she startle them and put herself in harm’s way. “Pray tell me what became of your visit to the temple?”

“It was better than I had hoped, mother." Hyacinthus returned, reining his horse to a stop. A slave came forth and took the steed into his care after he dismounted it. “I believe the Golden One heard my prayers.”

Diomede espied the supple leather saddlebag her son loosened carefully and took to hand, and she bit her tongue all the same. Hyacinthus had said little of his intentions, save that he wished to visit the temple dedicated to the daughter of Ouranos. She would have to wait until he decided to speak to her of it. 

“That is good,” she said, twining her free arm around his when he joined her. “Now come. Your father expects you to bathe and join him in the barracks hall for dinner.”

Hyacinthus led her and his sister to the women’s chambers on the upper floor before parting ways. He stalked to his rooms at the end of a dimly lit passageway and left the saddlebag he carried at the foot of his bed. Then he rang a little bell for a slave. He needed to bathe and dress before going to the barracks. His father would not take kindly to him arriving in the hall set aside for the soldiers to have their meals while dressed in sandals covered in dust or garbed in robes smelling of sweat and horse. He was a prince, after all, and he was expected to comport himself as such.

The slave who answered his summons led him to the bathing chamber set aside for the lords of the palace. Here Hyacinthus disrobed himself before walking into the sunken pool filled with fragrant water, though he did not linger long. He bathed as quickly as he could, then he dressed in the robes the slave laid out for him on a marble bench: a tunic of crimson and gold that had been given to him as a gift by a wealthy merchant hoping to curry favor with the king, a fine leather belt, and soft doeskin sandals. Hyacinthus studied his reflection in a silvered-looking glass the slave held up for him while he combed his hair. He looked presentable, and very much the image of a prince. Pleased with his efforts, he gave the comb for the slave to take, and he left for the barracks. Dinner would begin soon.

Cretheus met him on the way. He accompanied the prince down a long corridor until they reached a vast hall decorated sparsely before going to sit with his own friends. Hyacinthus spoke with him and those around him for a few moments. He was also reminded of the wager. He again promised to pledge a prince’s portion, and then he excused himself. His father was already seated, and he awaited him. 

The meal that night consisted of thin, flat disks of bread and roasted fish dressed in lemon and herbs. There was black broth and cheese also, and figs that were already in season. Hyacinthus sat with his father upon the raised dais, speaking with the soldiers who were invited to sit and eat with them that particular night. It was a custom Amyclas, his father, began after he became king. It did not matter if they were the sons of nobles or lowborn youth of uncertain birth. Amyclas would call a score of them to his table, and he would speak to them. Sometimes, he would ask after their families. Other times, he addressed their concerns or any failings they discovered within his army. And he learned much. Hyacinthus was asked to do the same since he turned ten and three, for such would be the duty that would fall to him the day he ascended the throne.

Hyacinthus ate all that was served to him in haste, so eager was he to be gone. “Are you hoping to meet someone, my son?” Amyclas leaned over and whispered in his gruff voice.

“Why do you ask, father?” Hyacinthus replied with an innocent air. His father did not know that Apollo was his companion, and neither did his mother. He was not yet ready to speak to them of such a thing.

“You finished your meal uncommonly fast,” Amyclas explained, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. He paused when a slave came to take away their dishes. “You even ate your bowl of black broth without complaint, and I know how much you loathe it. You did so because you wish to leave, and you wish to leave because you wish to meet someone. That is the only notion I can think of. Pray who is it? Is it the daughter of someone at court? Perhaps I can speak to her family on your behalf.”

Hyacinthus flushed from cheek to chest. His father missed so little. “I cannot say for the moment,” he began. “Perhaps I will speak to you and mother about them later on, but I cannot do so for now.”

“You cannot speak about this person.” The king arched a brow. He lowered his voice even more. “Is your companion the son of a noble, then? Or is he a soldier you formed an attachment with and are afraid to speak of?”

“Father…”

“Arrangements have been made in similar instances. And there have been brides who have been agreeable to much the same. Tell me a name after the others have retired to their beds. I will speak with your companion for you and devise a proposal that would appeal to all of us.” 

“I cannot tell you, father. I am not yet ready to do so.”

“You insist on not telling me,” Amyclas murmured. He did not like what he heard. Hyacinthus hid little from his family concerning the company he kept, and this gave his father pause. “Is this companion of yours one of the slaves? Pray do not tell me you have formed an attachment with one of the slaves.”

“My companion hails from high birth and fortune, father,” Hyacinthus said. He looked into his father’s eyes to impress upon the fact that he was not hiding anything unpleasant. “And they are far from a slave. This much I can tell you.”

“I see.” Amyclas, somewhat appeased, leaned back into his seat. He raised his cup to a slave passing by. It was a signal he desired more wine. “For tonight, I will excuse you. Go on, my son. And tell this companion, whomever they may be, that I insist on speaking with them when the opportunity arises.”

“Of course, my king,” Hyacinthus said, pushing back his chair and rising. He bowed to his father, said his farewells to the others, and left the barracks not long after, highly amused with the idea of his father holding an audience with a literal god in his throne room. 

More stars dotted the night sky when the prince returned to his rooms. He locked and bolted the door behind him and removed his sandals. A sigh rose from the tips of his very toes when cool marble pressed against the bottoms of his feet. Relieved, he walked toward a window open to starlit views of distant mountains. Apollo would come to him here, as was his wont to do.

And the prince did not have to wait for much longer. Apollo appeared a pace behind him, the golden glow of his earthly form spilling out all around him like a brilliant halo. Hyacinthus smiled when the light of his companion’s radiance flowed around his feet like waves lapping at the shore of a lake.

“Welcome, my lord,” he said.

Apollo gathered him into his embrace and held him from behind. “Beloved,” he whispered into his ear. “How fare you this night?”

“I am well,” Hyacinthus said. “I trust you know of my meeting the Golden One?”

“Aphrodite spoke of it to me,” Apollo said. He brushed his nose against the prince’s dark hair. It had become even softer since he saw him last. “She also spoke of the draught she gave as a gift. May I ask, my love, why such a thing is necessary? Have I failed to satisfy you in any way?”

It was strange to hear a god express self-doubt in any way. “You please me well, my lord,” Hyacinthus said. He closed his eyes and trembled as Apollo’s tongue ran over the shell of his ear. “I simply desired to try something new.”

“I see. Do you understand you cannot indulge too much of it? And that you must tell me if you are unwell in any way?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Then come, my love. Let us begin a new diversion together.”

Apollo was the first to reach the bed, an olive-wood kline wide and comfortable enough for sleeping. He opened the saddlebag and drew out the vial it held. “This is a most potent thing Aphrodite has given you,” he remarked, removing the stopper easily. The scent of rare spices poured out freely, as did the aroma of other intoxicating things Hyacinthus could not even name. “We shall each have a drop to begin with, and then we shall see where it takes us.”

A drop was what the god offered, and a drop was what the prince was given to taste. Hyacinthus swallowed that sweet-tasting drop, and he inhaled sharply. It was as if every inch of his body had been set ablaze by lust more powerful than any he had ever known.

“Oh,” the prince exclaimed. He grabbed onto Apollo’s arm, stunned by the strength of the desire heaving through his veins. His senses came alive. He could smell the sunlight on Apollo’s form, and he could feel golden ichor, a sign of Apollo’s divinity, pulse just beneath the tips of his fingers like a living thing. It was frightening and exhilarating all at once. “I want more, my lord. More. Please.”

“Hush, my love,” Apollo said. He downed a drop himself. The effect was nowhere as extreme as it was with Hyacinthus, but he succumbed to it all the same. “Come lay with me for a little while,” he implored, putting the vial on the floor. “Let me feel you in my arms.”

Their garments were disposed of without much ceremony. Apollo gently divested Hyacinthus of his belt and his tunic. Hyacinthus tugged at Apollo’s in his hunger to feel flesh against flesh. He inadvertently ripped it down the center, exposing his companion to the waist. Apollo chuckled. He took the prince into his arms again and kissed him, growling in approval when nails dug desperately into his back.

“Come,” he said, stepping back long enough to speak. The tattered remnants of his tunic he pulled over his shoulders and threw onto the pile of garments that had formed on polished stone. Then he pushed the prince onto the bed. “Come lay with me.”

Apollo was determined to not let Hyacinthus have any more of the potion provided to him. In the end, however, he yielded to the prince’s entreaties and allowed him a second drop and a third. He helped himself to more of it and returned the vial to its place in the saddlebag. Every sensation was sharper to even him and more defined. He could hear the beat of the prince’s heart. It was as loud and clear as a drum. He could feel the fire already pooling low in the prince’s belly, and he could smell the faint redolence of sandalwood and pomegranate oils lingering along the prince’s limbs. He savored them, all of them, and, when he joined the prince in bed, and the prince reared up to kiss him, he allowed himself to be drowned in them.

There was no patience this time, no tender preparation or gentle caresses. Wilderness tore at them both, urging them to take, and take, and take. Hyacinthus hissed when teeth marred his throat, his chest, and his sides. He cried out his pleasure when Apollo took him to hand, and he whimpered when he held him even tighter. Nevertheless, such acts were not enough to satisfy him fully, and he made it clear with his appeals for more of everything. Apollo swiftly left the bed and searched for the oil. He found it where it always was, right at the bottom of the heavy chest beneath a window facing the east. He wasted no time readying himself, and he certainly wasted no time readying the prince. Hyacinthus whined softly when his thighs were parted by trembling hands and when he was easily breached with two fingers. He writhed against the cushions, his cock bobbing against his belly whenever he moved. Pearlescent beads gathered at the tip, a sign of his growing arousal. Seeing it was enough to compel Apollo to forget all sense of himself. He withdrew his fingers and moved his hand around the prince’s back, raising his hips. Then he slid himself in, sinking as deep as he could manage.

Hyacinthus’ mouth parted in a silent gasp. He could not comprehend being able to take so much, and so quickly. Oh, Apollo had taken him in such a manner before, but never so fully, and never without restraint. Still, it felt just as wondrous, if not even more so. Hyacinthus’ fingers dug into the silk just as Apollo braced his free hand by his shoulder. The god kept a relentless rhythm, growing drunk on the sounds he heard. He was close. He perceived Hyacinthus was close also, and he craved nothing more than to make him spend.

“Harder, my lord,” Hyacinthus all but sobbed, clawing at the cushions beneath him as Apollo drove into him again and again. He wrapped his legs around the god’s hips, digging his heels into his back as if to urge him to go even deeper. “Harder. Please.”

Apollo, inflamed by the command, pulled out and turned Hyacinthus onto his stomach. He grabbed his hips, lifting them again, and he parted Hyacinthus’ legs with his own. Before the prince could say another word, he settled himself comfortably on his knees and pushed his length inside.

Neither prince nor god stopped to consider if the sounds of their coupling carried beyond thick, oaken doors and into the chambers and corridors beyond it. Hyacinthus propped himself on his elbows, his moans as loud as his companion’s. “There,” he cried. Apollo struck a place he had never done before; it made him see stars behind his eyes when he did. “Just there. Harder, my lord. Harder. Oh—”

Warmth spurted against the cushions, painting them repeatedly with thin, clouded stripes. Hyacinthus dropped his head against his arm. So lost was he in the bliss that washed over him that he did not feel the nails cutting little indents into his sides, or the thrusts that grew erratic. Apollo reached his release not long after. He grunted deeply as he spilled his seed, his entire body shivering violently from the euphoria that followed. He thrust until he softened, and then he stilled.

The world came into focus slowly. Apollo was the first to recover from the effects of the potion. He pulled away and collapsed onto his back, breathing as heavily as a mortal who had sprinted for miles. “Have I gone too far, my love?” He whispered hoarsely. “Did I hurt you by what I did?”

“You have not, my lord.” Hyacinthus turned and settled by Apollo’s side, even more worn by what came to pass. He looked up at the god when he renewed his embrace. “But I fear we were far from silent and discrete. Someone would have heard.”

“I will deal with any intruder myself,” Apollo promised, nearly half asleep. Such was the power of the potion they savored. It brought about passions not heard of in stories and songs, and then it brought a sense of great ease, a need for those who coupled to find restful peace in each other's presence.

“I urge you to restrain yourself.” Hyacinthus was half asleep as well. He rested his head in the crook of Apollo’s arm. “The first person to knock on those doors and demand entry may very well be my father. He knows I have formed an attachment with someone. And he insists on speaking with them.”

Apollo laughed. “Your father best be prepared for quite a revelation then. Now come, my love. Let us rest for a while. Dawn is many hours away still, and I have no desire to leave your side until then.”