HYACINTHUS

Chapter Two

ALTHOUGH MY FATHER didn't love the boy I was, for he thought I was much to effeminate and pretty to be called a man, my mother sure did.

I can confidently say she loved me, even adored me. Her first evening prayer to the gods was always for my safety.

She made sure I never got a cut, a scrape, a bruise, or anything that would diminish the splendor of the gods' work on my body.

You see, my mother was a pious woman. She believed that caring for my looks would redeem her in the eyes of gods.
After I grew older, I realized that Hades, the god of the Underworld who judged the weight of mortal sins, wouldn't care for such superficial actions.

I never told her.
She wouldn't have understood.

When I was five, the sharp edge of a branch detached from a tree had cut my knee and made it bleed, albeit just a bit. It was just a few scarlet-colored droplets, but they caused my mother to fall in a desolate state.

In desperation, she prayed, and prayed, and prayed some more, so the Gods could forgive her for my scrape, for their ruined masterpiece. She was on her knees, her white hands clasped on her chest, clutching the soft fabric of her violet robe, her head thrown back, her tear-smeared face distorted and grotesque.

Meanwhile, the servants dressed in rough linen peplos tended to my leg, cleansing it and applying some medicinal olive oil concoction on the cut for it to heal faster.

It was pungent, atrociously so, but I bit my lip and refrained from complaining. My mother's god-begging wails were noisy enough.

A week later, my knee was as good as new, looking as if it had never been hurt; however, my mother never really acted quite the same as before. As if the first event when I was hurt, though very lightly, woke up a new fear in her.

She would frequently make me stay in my room instead of letting me go out, first with the excuse of the rest time being good for my health, and later with no excuse at all.

In the beginning, I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. I even rejoiced at the thought of not having to face my brothers, who were forming into real brutes, both by word and strength.

I was also glad to eat alone in my room, not having to listen to their mean comments on my small bites, thin wrists and unfinished plates.

Yet, after some time, I started desperately aching to go out, dreaming about warm, grassy ground beneath my sandaled feet, a stark contrast to the cold tiles covering my room's floor.
In my chest, I felt a true longing for the open world, the Sun's gentle rays on my skin, the way its gold would shine like the ichor of the gods that had blessed or cursed me with it, at this point, I couldn't distinguish the difference.

In my long hours of solitude, I had picked up reading; I had asked servants to bring me the big, dusty yellowed scrolls from the archives, they didn't serve my father anything anyway.

I studied the epics until I knew the stories by heart, and I learned the bitter truth; each time a mortal was given "a gift from the gods", it was actually a curse in disguise.

Even Pandora, the first woman, thought the beautiful vase was a gift, but it turned out to be pure evil in disguise, all the sins of the earth were hidden in it. The only true gift bestowed upon humanity was the one Prometheus was forever punished for.

And as that, the gift of solitude my mortal mother gave me turned to a nightmare.

I despaired, I started to turn to the gods my mother so deeply loved, I prayed, prayed fervently, my childish heart burning in want to step out in the sun, searching for some way to not anger my mother and yet, feel the fresh air hit my face again, feel the energy of the elements awaken again in my veins, feel their flow unite my spirit and body.

I wanted so eagerly to see the sun burn up there, high up in the sky, to feel the soft wind tangle my hair gently, to feel the power I felt when those two combined, not like a seven-year-old boy, but as a youth blessed by the gods to do great deeds, a youth the gods loved.

And oh, so I hoped, that in case they truly loved me, their gift wouldn't become a curse.

The gods loved me, right? They must love me.

Even my mother's love felt overbearing.

The love of gods is all I had left.