Ganymede’s hands shook as he lowered the jewelled pitcher to the lip of Apollo’s goblet. The ambrosia’s scent was still heady after thirty years on Mount Olympus. The liquid splashed over the goblet onto the sun god’s hand.
“Forgive me, my lord!” Ganymede cried, jumping back as if stung by a wasp.
Apollo raised his eyebrow, not getting up from his throne. “Why do you jump like this, Ganymede?”
Ganymede never realised that Apollo knew his name. “I spilled your beverage, my lord.”
Apollo laughed, “Come now boy. I will drink ambrosia forever, what’s a few drops?”
Apollo’s voice sounded like his father’s. His voice brought back memories of dark rooms and broken bones. Spilled drops of blood.
“Not a thing, my lord, not a thing.” Apollo watched, confused, as Ganymede set the pitcher beside his goblet and walked away. Ganymede felt the sun on his face as he left the throne room and stepped out onto the balcony over looking the earth.
Thirty years and he still could not forget Zeus’s voice, long after the god had grown tired of him and his forever youthful body. Long after Zeus stopped taking him to the dark room where not even Helios could see them. The sun stung his eyes.
His hands still shook, thirty years later.
(Looks like I was a day late–sorry friends! More on Ganymede on Monday)