Chapter Two

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The word of the house was a god killed a mortal. Not one I had ever met, but a name I had heard in the servants’ tales of war. Hyacinth. He had been a lover of Apollo, but had won the heart of the titan Boreas as well. As they played discus, Boreas sent the wind astray and allowed the discus to strike Hyacinth and kill him. And now the funeral was being held.

Pasiphaë was beside herself, fears spilling from her mouth to the ladies that attended her. She held herself still with the grace of a Titan’s daughter, a river woman with a lithe figure like the rushing of water, a mermaid always accompanied by the smell of salt. She was more of a mother to me than mine had ever been. She was part Titan, part naiad, the leftovers of a war among gods. Gods could kill each other, but mortals were often spared.

Before the war the Titan Uranus ruled the universe. Then he locked up his children in Tartarus. Gaea, his wife, was angered and told them to kill Uranus. Only Cronus followed her lead. When his body spilled, new children were born of it. Uranus foresaw Cronus suffering the same fate of being overthrown by his sons, allowing him to become the thing he feared most: a terrible father.

Cronus imprisoned his brothers and ate his children. His wife, Rhea, watched her husband become his father and sought to protect her children. She hid one of her sons, Zeus, on Crete to keep him safe. As Zeus grew, he plotted to take down his tyrant father. He presented him wine with mustard mixed in to make him ill. He vomited up the children he ate, one by one.

Zeus divided the gods. The war shook the earth. Were it not for Zeus, the Titans would have continued to rule over the Olympians. The Titans now looked to Zeus, the peace fragile as a newborn babe.

Centuries passed. The earth healed, but the gods’ grudges did not. During feasts when Pasiphaë’s Titan family visited, they would speak in hushed tones about the gods on Olympus. I loved seeing the queen look to someone else, eyes lowered as she spoke. The glasses emptied and the candles shrunk. You can use the mortals, they whispered. We have been growing our power. With the strength in numbers, Pasiphaë, we can be stronger than the gods.

Pasiphaë frowned. “My family,” she said, “What say you for yourselves? How could I sacrifice the mortals for gods’ affairs? We cannot wage war.”

The Olympians would have been satisfied by her reply. But they couldn’t see the smirk on her face. The words she didn’t say.

We cannot wage war, yet.

Her family gleefully smirked back. They would leave her, all but drooling over what they’d do once the Titans were back in power.

It left me with my mouth agape. That behind a kind, familiar face there existed one that sought to bring the world down.

Now the Titans crowded Minos’s hall, voices hushed in fear instead of conspiracy. Apollo will go to Zeus and declare war, they said, now that his lover is dead. The Olympians will now have an excuse to eradicate us. We should act now before they do.

I was by my father’s side pretending I did not exist. I sat silently and eyed the floor, but the thought of being sent into war sent waves rolling through my stomach. Minos’s walls stained with blood. Pasiphaë using us mortals as pawns. We would rot in the pits of hell.

The queen stood tall among her fearful family, speaking coolly: “If Apollo and Boreas seek to fight, it is only them who should be involved.”

But the family continued to fear. The gods will be insulted by Boreas’s insolence. Look what happens to Titans who dare defy them.

I inhaled the smell of salt as Pasiphaë spoke. “It is a quarrel between lovers and nothing more. No insult has been made. Is that clear?”

The titans nodded, bowing their heads in agreement. On their lowered faces, I saw relief intertwined with disappointment. There would be no war, not yet.

Gods rarely killed mortals, but murder was a cruel and terrible thing. The halls were alive with talk. Would Apollo torture Boreas? Bring his lover back with his divine ability? Gods are fascinated by mortal affairs and the lengths other gods go to meddle with them.

On the day of the funeral, many faces I had never seen filled the king’s halls. Large black candles hung from the walls, their light housing mortals of every walk of life. The nobles left their castles, and Spartan warriors abandoned their training. My father stood with Iapyx, not quite noble and not quite peasant. The king himself came, of course, with Pasiphaë, but also wily Ariadne and the future king Catreus, young Deucalion and his twin sister, Phaedra. I would’ve believed it if Naucrate herself was in the crowd. The only ones not present were Hyacinth’s so-called lovers. They thought themselves too good for pointless mortal affairs. I had heard each had held his own vigil.

The one to speak first was another Spartan warrior, a thick-muscled young man with tears in his eyes. My family was very near to the front of the crowd, and I fixated on the casket. The royal children fidgeted and whispered behind me. I hear he loved Hyacinth too. Why was he so special that he won the hearts of two gods?

The casket was closed. But I could recall what I’d heard about Hyacinth. His face was chestnut brown and earthy, with soft cheeks and a strong jaw. Black curls sat atop his head.

“The gods have taken a good man from us.”

His voice reverberated through the room, deep and solemn like the earth itself if it were to groan. He wiped his hair from his face. With his right hand he gestured to the casket, where behind stood a hooded man.

The black hood hid his face, but I could see golden eyes peeking out from underneath. His head was bowed, but they were unmistakable. I heard a prince whisper something about the casket being made by the finest smiths. The man placed a hand on it, and the golden eyes became wet. The spartan who first spoke told of the cruelty of the gods. Even I, who knew so little of the world then, felt the ache that glowed in those golden eyes.

I waited for Pasiphaë to say something. Or even Iapyx. Surely they would defend the gods, explain Apollo’s love, absolve the king's family. But the Spartan ranted violently and unchecked.

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The Spartan continued about Hyacinth’s gifts to the world. He was a warrior with the heart of a lover. The sound of the Spartan’s sob echoed like the baying of a dog. His shoulders shuddered as he doubled over. All around me sadness dripped from the walls themselves. The golden-eyed man stood stoic. Sobs. The Spartan’s voice broke as he yelled. He hacked away at the reputation of the gods, outlining them as something to fear, portraying them as cruel monsters who engaged in senseless killing. All I could focus on was the casket and the man’s golden, burning eyes. He lifted his head for a moment, showing off the tears in them. One of Minos’s children pushed at my back.

The wounds of gods heal fast, the Spartan reasoned, so they had no knowledge of how their power could harm mortals. They were careless, careless and murderous. The gold-eyed man winced as if he’d been hit.

The Spartan continued to cry. It could have been hours that passed. But mortal lives are short, and they cannot spend all of them mourning. The pain began to grow stale. They remembered the lives they must return to, the castles in which they resided, the soft pallets on which they were to lay their limbs. One by one they began to leave, and, after a final biting remark, so did the Spartan, leaving only me and the man with the golden eyes.

The hood had slipped from the man’s head. His eyes were closed, head tilted back. Long braids hung down to his shoulders. I had heard enough stories to know what I was looking at. He was an Olympian.

Only he and I remained in the hall with Hyacinth’s casket. The smell of a fresh breeze wafted through the air. His hair had golden highlights, matching golden markings on his face. My heart raced in my chest. Was he not aware of my presence? I took a cautious step toward him. His eyes snapped forward, burning right through me.

“Lord Apollo.” It was then more than ever I hated the childlike nature of my voice.

His eyes softened. They were handsome without the hood casting over them, thin and deep-set and honey gold. His cheeks were sharp, as if his bones were chiseled from rock.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I said.

I waited for him to strike me down like my father had warned me about. Instead, he said, “I appreciate it.” His voice was crisp and aged as fine wine. It was my first time hearing it, through all the Spartan had to say about the gods he did not retort.

I turned. My breaths quickened as I attempted to collect myself, hearing the sounds of chatter from other rooms. Apollo had not moved from his spot, inspecting his fingernails. He had not struck me down for approaching him, but it was only a matter of time before he found himself offended. I imagined his time-worn voice screaming out my name. I imagined all the gods working to strike me down and my soul leaving my body as I approached death. But I could not envision anymore. I had never felt death. I did not know who would mourn when I was gone.

I trembled so much I had to hold my hands behind my back. What if someone walked in? But Apollo didn’t move as I approached again.

He had his eyes closed. His hands were on the casket, and it was then I noticed the many rings he wore.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

I flushed. Of course I did not. I shook my head, cheeks burning with shame. What was I doing at a funeral of a man I had never seen? I watched him nod sagely, his skin gleaming like freshly polished mahogany. He smelled of a warm summer’s day.

“Are you a mortal?” he asked after a moment.

“Yes.” I was shocked he even had to ask. There were no gods that looked like me. The gods were perfect and flawless and did not have messy hair.

“I’m surprised you’re not afraid.”

I did not know whether I was afraid, I felt everything and nothing at once. He spoke tentatively, almost nervously, as if I was the one to fear. As if I were divine like him.

“What is your name?” he asked. “You know mine.”

“Helle.”

It was not completely a lie, as it might’ve been had I said it to anyone else. Beside him I felt like Helle: a strong first-born brave enough to talk to the gods. Helle was not someone I woke up and chose to be, but someone who was inside me all along. I did not doubt Apollo knew my true name. But if he did, he did not say a word about it. Power emanated from him like the sun’s rays.

I looked back at the casket, willing myself to come into the name I had given.

“You fell in love with a mortal,” I said.

“I did.”

“What was special about him, may I ask?”

It was a foolish question, but he nodded. “I fell in love with his courage. He sought to protect Crete. He feared not even death. Not even gods. Can you imagine a man such as that?”

“I can’t,” I said.

“Neither can I. As a god I will never truly understand death or know to fear it. But I know how it is to be left behind, a thousand times over, praying that they can bear it.”

I watched him shudder. “What happens if they can’t?”

“They’d better.”

The candles were shrinking down and we began to bathe in shadow. “Is it true that Boreas loved him too? And that he killed him?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

His eyes were like endless pools. “What do you think?”

I did not think. It seemed like needless cruelty, but I could not tell him so, not while he rested his hands on his lover’s casket.

“Love makes you do stupid things,” he said.

I do not know what I would’ve said in return. A shout erupted from a nearby hall.

“It is time for you to go. They will soon lower the casket into the ground.”

I liked the way he spoke, matter-of-factly and to the point. As if within a case of stone his heart wept.

“Then I will go,” I said. “Feel better?”

“I will do my best,” he said. “And you were Helle, you said?”

“Yes.”

Did he smile at me? Perhaps in the heat of the moment I imagined it. I was trembling from speaking to him, which might have been the most dangerous thing I’d done in my life. I turned and left him with the casket, returning to my father and brother. They feasted with the royal family. I had no appetite for feasting. I waited for my heart to give out or my food to turn stale. Why had Apollo spared me? I was nothing, a wisp of light in the glory of the sun. Just another mortal.

A strange feeling bubbled in my chest. A sort of fluttering, like newly hatched butterflies taking flight for the first time. I returned to my chambers to see a lyre resting on my pallet as if it belonged there. I rested my fingers on its wood, running them along a carving of the sun. It was still warm to the touch. A gift from the sun god himself.

“Where did you get that?” Iapyx once asked.

“I bought it,” I had said.

I picked up the lyre. The golden strings glistened in the waning sunlight. Beneath them were my thighs, soft and innocently mortal. They would grow old and fail me some day. I did not feel afraid of that truth. No, another fear gripped me completely: that the lyre would not choose me. That I would try to sing and my voice would croak, and the lyre would not make a sound.

It made a sound. My voice filled the room, accompanied by the sweet melody I strummed on the lyre. It did not sound divine, but I did not possess Apollo’s power of song. I sang for a while before I sat in silence. I held the lyre to my chest and as I held it a realization found itself within me. It was a childish one, but one that would endanger me as others came to realize it too.

The realization was as follows: that all my life I had lived in fear of the gods, but I was not a fearful stranger to their world. I was a valued member of it.