Where The Hyacinth Grows

Sparta Becomes A Circus, Hyacinth the Clown

It was the month of Gamelion. The light was dimming, the sun hidden behind dark grey storm clouds and rain forced us all to look at the reflections of ourselves upon the ground. It would have been good for the plants, if it were warm enough for them to thrive.

Hours later, it was two o'clock in the morning. He shouldn't have been awake but sleep could not find him in plain sight. He was in his chambers still, sitting beneath the cold moonlight, staring out at the stars. A sort of shawl covered him. It was too cold not to have his windows sealed but the sky had always been there to keep him company and he'd hated to cut it off, instead choosing to pile blankets upon his bed.

Hyacinthus shivered lightly and hugged the shawl close to his body and yet he dared to step closer to the window. All the townsfolk were asleep; their fires were burned out and the streets were desolate. All but crooks will only be out when radiant Apollo's chariot cuts through the clouds and races through the sky above. Yet, the stars were there, practically alive.

Figures danced before his eyes and animals ran about more freely than they might have in life. To be so beloved of a deity that they'd put stars in the sky for you... it had to be the grandest gesture of love and Hyacinthus sighed in longing just pondering on it. Their beauty preserved; do the stars know how loved they are?

He wished upon them — for it was the twentieth anniversary of his birth — to be as loved as they were. A hopeless romantic, his mother joked that he should have been born a girl but he did not feel the same way. He preferred his breezy winter tunics and summer loincloths to the torturous contraptions and uncomfortable restraints that the bare-breasted women had to endure. He loved to feel his hair sway against his back and the water trickling down his skin.

Although, in place of the water, he had wished for the careful hands of a loved one; large, loving and undoubtedly masculine in their form. He wanted them to cover him, from his breasts to the thighs that painfully rubbed sea salt against one another as he walked after visits to the beach.

When at last a piece of wood fitting the window was pushed in, closing up the wall to keep the cold out, Hyacinthus climbed beneath all of his many blankets and sleep came to him easily. In the morning, Morpheus whispered in his ear, the god with dark rustling feathers and dreams swirling in his eyes.

He said, "Beloved Hyacinth, Prince of Magnesia, you deceive others as much as you deceive yourself. The blood of Amyclas does not flow through your veins as a father's should his son. Your eyes are of your mother's grandfather, Magnes, yes, but your silken hair and bronze skin are traits passed to you by a goddess. Ask not the messenger about this, but ask the man that you call father."

Hyacinthus' eyes cracked open and Morpheus was gone, a fading fog, back to the seat of Aphrodite.

It was nothing but a silly dream, but Hegesandre didn't seem to think so. "Mother, father!" she wept, racing barefoot into the megaron. Her long, dark waves of hair slapped her back gently as the calm sea when she came to a halt before a large oakwood throne at the end of the hall.

Sat upon his throne was the hard-eyed King Amyclas of Sparta. He was a well-built, stern man with rough skin of copper and long, dark curls sat upon his crown. Seated at his side was Queen Diomede, the daughter of Orsinome and Lapithes. Her skin looked like it was made from freshly pressed olives and her eyes were the green of their outer layer. That she was a Lapith, born of a demi-god son of Apollo, was surprising for how much she looked like she could well have been a nymph.

Hegesandre was silent for a moment, words caught in her throat with her sobs, gently choking her. Amyclas was not the most patient of men and let out a hefty sigh.
"Well, speak, girl!" he demanded and lifted his arm as though it would make the words magically rise from her throat.
"The god Morpheus," she spluttered, "he came to Hyacinth in a dream!"
The king's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his seat, while Diomede picked at her nails anxiously, until the king placed a hand upon her own.
"He said that Hyacinth is not of your blood, father."
Amyclas looked to his wife and a silent conversation of eye movements and raised eyebrows passed between them.
"Father, I must–" Hyacinthus began, only to be cut off by the rise of the king's hand.
"Be quiet," he demanded. "You will get your answers."