(I couldn't find the pfp artist's name :( Original character by @tanpuffin. I only changed the love interest. Check the profile out, this person is very talented.)

It’s been three months since Hyacinthus’s tragic death, and all poetry in the world lost its beauty. Not once has the Sun shone as brightly as in the days before the Spartan prince had passed away. Beautiful, purple flowers that bloomed from his spilled blood–commemorating his ethereal beauty in perpetuity–outgrew from his burial mound, basking the whole meadow in a variety of the prince’s favourite colours; deep indigo and bright magenta, light pink and vibrant violet.

Apollo wept incessantly for one hundred nights and one hundred days, mourning his deceased lover. Not once during his grief had he played his lyre, rode his chariot, shot his bow, or sang a song. Each activity that previously brought him mirth, now served just as a reminder of the time he shared with his mortal darling; time he lost irrevocably because of his envious quarrels.

At the zenith of a hundred and one night, the lamenting God visited the grave of his beloved, like hundred times before. Tonight, however, he found a mourner there, weeding out the still-fresh burial site. He couldn’t believe what he saw, frozen by shock and an overwhelming impression of wishful apparition. It felt like looking at his dear Hyacinthus again, though younger and less whimsical.

A mortal at the brink of adolescence knelt by the grave, gingerly plucking weed from between the hyacinths. Their nimble hands worked diligently, with practiced ease of someone used to manual labor. They whispered dreadful prayers to the night, gingerly asking for the deceased's peaceful rest in the afterlife. Cold wind combed through their dark hair, carrying their lilting reverences to the Underworld.

The young one looked like a Spartan prince, a copy of those Apollo had encountered many times before. Yet they were anything but a Royal.

Apollo could only stare at the human in morbid awe, the realisation slowly dawning on him. It wasn’t an illusion, nor was it a cruel trick of his fellow deities; he was looking at a mere worker who seemed to share his late lover's beauty. A slave or a servant, he couldn't quite tell.

They looked like an exact copy of Hyacinthus, except for the fact this person was still alive. They were obviously a gift of consolation for his scarred soul, a gilf from the Fates themselves.