Ganymede and Other Romantic Short Stories from Greek Mythology

by T. S. Cleveland

  And now the only surety ahead of him was death. The immortality Zeus had gifted had left him with a shorter life than he’d ever imagined for himself. Somehow, after living the length of three men’s lives, he was dying with scarcely the memory of one.

  But he’d take it. He’d accept it happily if it meant a mortal death, and an end to the pain.

  “Yes, yes,” he repeated again, feeling the last of the peace leaving him. And then PAIN. SHARP. BRUTAL. STOP IT. STOP. KILL ME.

  Zeus picked a flower from Ganymede’s hair and tucked it into the folds of his robe. Then he leaned down, kissing Ganymede’s lips. “I am sorry, my beautiful boy,” he whispered, his eyes hot. He glanced up at Hermes. “You are certain? He’s agreed?”

  “He has. I stake my own immortality on it,” Hermes assured.

  “Then there is only one part left for me to play.” Zeus held tight to Ganymede’s shaking shoulders. He made the sky crack with lightning. And then he took his immortality away.

  Ganymede felt lips upon his lips, a brush of a whisper at his ear, and then he felt nothing. No pain. No breath. No sunlight on his skin. No warmth from Zeus’ hands.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing. At first. And then, after a few worried blinks, he realized it was just very dark. Since he last recalled lying on a mountaintop in the sun, this abrupt change was disconcerting. Then a familiar voice disconcerted him even more.

  “Still heartbreakingly attractive, I see,” came Hermes’ voice at his side. “Even here.”

  Ganymede turned to face the god. Hermes was bright, but everything else was dim, including his own hand as he watched Hermes take it in his own. Hermes lifted it to his mouth and kissed the palm. His lips twitched. With the urge to smile or grimace, Ganymede wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if Hermes was sure either.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “In a land you were never meant to grace with your presence,” Hermes answered. “What do you remember? Tell me, while we walk.” Squeezing Ganymede’s hand, Hermes guided them along the dark land.

  The longer they walked, the more details Ganymede’s eyes began to piece together. The ground was not only in shadow, it was umber itself, dark and grim and stone. The sky above was not a sky but only more darkness. The air was cool and absent of breeze. All was silent except the sound of his feet trudging along beside Hermes, and the distant, dreamy sound of moving water.

  “I remember,” Ganymede began, brow creasing, “Hera calling me to her in the garden. She embraced me, and . . .” He held a hand to his heart, remembering the pain. “Oh, Hermes, what happened to me?”

  “Hera won, that’s what happened,” Hermes hissed. “She thinks she has, at least.”

  “She killed me,” Ganymede gasped. “But that’s impossible.”

  “It is and she didn’t. She procured a Hydra blood-dipped arrow from Heracles and used its taint against you. The only cure was mortality, and Zeus gave it to you. Or rather, he took your immortality away.”

  Ganymede remembered it, as if seeing it through a fog. He held tight to Hermes’ hand. “This is the Underworld,” he whispered. “I’ve died.”

  “It was the only way to save your life.”

  Ganymede nodded along as they approached a river. The Styx. A robed figure sat in a boat on the shore, but Hermes waved him off when he turned towards Ganymede and beckoned a bony finger.

  “No need, Charon” explained Hermes. “I’m escorting him personally.”

  They went past the boatman and walked a bit along the river’s edge. Ganymede was afraid, but he felt comforted by Hermes’ presence, and by the strong hand gripping his own.

  “I am thankful to Zeus for restoring my mortality and letting me die,” Ganymede said, meaning it and not meaning it at the same time. He was thankful to be released from the horrendous suffering, but he was also stricken by the unfairness of it all. He hadn’t wanted to die, no more than he’d wanted to live forever. “But how has this saved my life? I’m dead.”

  “For now,” Hermes replied fondly before pulling Ganymede to his chest and making the wings at his heels flutter madly. “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

  Ganymede closed his eyes and clung to Hermes. He felt a whoosh of air around him and the solid strength of Hermes’ body, a mouth pressing against his hair in a stolen kiss.

  “Open,” he said, and Ganymede opened his eyes. The river was gone and he was in a mutedly grand hall instead. It was gloomy yet festive, with a long iron table covered in a spread of colorful fruits, bread and honey, and wine. The ceiling was high and arched, the columns were black as the pantheon, marble cut and menacing. A throne loomed at the end of the room, but the god meant to sit in it was standing instead, right before Ganymede.

  He was darkness. Black beard, black hair, black eyes. His robes were colorless and stiff. He was frowning at Ganymede. Hermes still had him pulled against his chest and Ganymede was happy to remain there. He did not like the look of the god staring down at him. He shivered and longed for the sunny skies of Mount Olympus, though he was as far from there as it was possible to be.

  “I’ve seen fairer,” Hades said, still studying the cup-bearer carefully.

  “No one is trying to compare Ganymede to Core,” Hermes grated. “And if you honor Zeus’ deal, it won’t be long before one is traded for the other.”

  Deal? Ganymede glanced between the gods. Hades stroked his beard and Hermes fidgeted slightly, his hands gripping tighter to Ganymede. Ganymede dared not speak.

  “I will honor it,” Hades said. He bent low, so as to stare directly into Ganymede’s eyes. His gaze was startling. “You are special indeed, to receive such a favor from me. No one leaves the Underworld.”

  “It’s not exactly a favor, is it?” Hermes asked sharply. “Considering the price.”

  “No one leaves the Underworld,” Hades repeated coolly. “But you, Ganymede, will. You may take your soul and your life and return to the living. Do it now, so our business can be settled.”

  Ganymede had no time to respond, or process, or show gratitude, because as soon as the permission was granted, Hermes redoubled his hold on him and the air became a loud, roaring whoosh in his ears. When it stopped, his arms were around Hermes’ neck and his face was tucked against his chest, and Hermes was easing him gently away.

  Sun streamed, the river sparkling, the river that was not the Styx but the Scamander, his grandfather’s river. Home.

  He squinted, eyes struggling to adjust and tearfully overwhelmed. He breathed in great gulps of air, so happy to fill his lungs with the fresh air of the living. He knelt, burying his fingers in lush grass. Hermes knelt beside him. He was smiling again, which made Ganymede smile, but only for a moment, only until Hades’ words returned to him.

  “What was the price?” he asked. “No one leaves the Underworld.”

  Hermes twisted a blade of grass between his long fingers. His chiton had risen up his leg, revealing a slender thigh. “Hades has been haranguing Zeus about his and Demeter’s daughter for a long time,” he answered. “Constantly he asks to wed her, but Zeus has respected Demeter’s wishes. She doesn’t want her daughter bound to that place. She vowed to wreak havoc with the world if Zeus allowed it.”

  Ganymede nodded slowly in understanding. “He’s allowed it, then.” He recalled the way Demeter watched him in the pantheon, the motherly nature of her gaze. She’d feared for her daughter’s fate, and now, because of Ganymede, her worst fears would come to pass. “Zeus has given permission for Hades to marry Core?”

  “He’s given permission for Hades to take Core, in exchange for your mortal soul,” Hermes confirmed. “It was the only trade he could offer.” He held Ganymede’s eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder. “He did not hesitate, Ganymede. He would have done anything to save you.”

  A sigh escaped Ganymede with a shudder. He wrapped his arms around himself as a cool breeze lifted his curls. He was so used to the temperate climate of Olympus. It wo
uld take an adjustment, learning how to be mortal again. “I will grow old now,” he said. “Hera will allow me to live?”

  “Zeus is searching for Hera as we speak,” said Hermes with a roguish grin. “She will not suffer lightly for what she’s done. As for killing you, there is no need for it now. You are mortal.”

  “His other lovers have been mortal, and she’s come after them,” argued Ganymede.

  “But his other lovers are not as well hidden as you,” Hermes replied. He touched a hand to Ganymede’s cheek. “You will not be found by Hera. As far as she knows, you remain in the Underworld. And I? I will keep my eyes on you.”

  “You’ll keep watch of me?” Ganymede asked, feeling his blush rise.

  “Of course. I am curious to see how well you grow.” His hand smoothed over Ganymede’s cheek and he laughed. “Mortal for no more than a minute and already I feel the beginnings of a beard. Making up for lost time, I wonder?”

  Ganymede’s hand flew to his face and his eyes widened to feel a sprout of stubble on his jaw. “Oh,” he whispered, delighted.

  “You will grow up, Ganymede. And instead of the prettiest boy, you will be the handsomest man. Mortal or otherwise.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Ganymede’s. “Be happy, Ganymede, and free.”

  Hermes kissed him, but it was not stolen. Ganymede gave it freely.

  His stubble became a beard. The years caught up in days, until Ganymede had the looks of a man in his middle twenties. He traded his gold loin cloth for armor and went to his father’s old palace, now the palace of Priam. He drew looks from all, a mysterious young man coming from nowhere and asking to join the fight. He did not tell them who he was, nor did anyone guess. How could they have?

  They accepted him and gave him a sword, and he went out to the fields to practice wielding it. In the field, he searched for his family and found a gathering of stone monuments bearing his father’s name, and his mother’s. His brothers were not there, nor were Nicolas or Alexius, but he’d not expected them, only hoped.

  He knelt before the monument and touched his hand to the carving of their names. One day he would return to the Underworld. It was no longer impossible. “I will see you again,” he whispered against the stone. He could not promise when. Troy was still at war with Sparta, and he would be called to battle soon.

  He trained with the other soldiers, learning swordplay well enough to fight, and although he was not terrible, he wasn’t especially skilled either. He imagined Hermes watching and laughing at his shortcomings, often checking over his shoulder for a glimpse of his grinning face and flash of his fluttering sandals. He never saw him, but he always looked.

  But no gods revealed themselves to Ganymede.

  Not until Zeus came.

  On the eve of Ganymede’s first battle, he paced in the field by his parents. He’d let his beard grow thick and his curls long, kissing his shoulders. They were still golden and silky, and his eyes were still big and green, but he was no longer a soft boy. His muscles were hard. He had a patch of golden hair on his chest. He was a man and a soldier, and when Zeus appeared before him, he reached his chin, instead of just his chest.

  Zeus smiled at him and opened his arms.

  Ganymede crushed himself against the god, forgetting all semblance of respect. He could only show gratefulness for his arrival. He wrapped his arms around Zeus’ waist and hid his tear stained cheeks in the crook of his neck. Their beards scratched against each other.

  “Ganymede, my beautiful Ganymede,” Zeus praised, lifting his cup-bearer’s face so he could kiss it. “It feels like a heartbeat since I last saw you.”

  In truth, it had not been long. Six months, perhaps. Hermes had been right; Ganymede’s body had caught up quickly, and six months had felt like years. To Zeus, however, he knew the time had passed unnoticed. For him, they really had just separated, and Ganymede had just died in his arms. He kissed the god again, boldly combing his fingers through his hair.

  “I didn’t think I would see you again,” Ganymede confessed. “I did not know if you would want me when . . . when I grew.”

  “My love,” sighed Zeus. He reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out a single red flower. “You’ve only grown more beautiful to me.” He tucked the blossom behind Ganymede’s ear. It would wilt and die on this mortal plane, like Ganymede, but its short life only made its existence more precious.

  It had been six months for Ganymede and a heartbeat for Zeus, and that was too long for both of them. Zeus laid him out in the soft grass, unbuckling every piece of armor, kissing every piece of skin as it was bared to him. Ganymede remembered the steps, but he’d forgotten how it felt. His pleasured gasps filled the field as Zeus took everything Ganymede had to give. It was his first time being loved as a mortal, and as a man, and he reveled in it. It was sweeter in the dark field than on the finest silk sheets on Mount Olympus.

  They lay breathless and wrapped up together, Ganymede’s head resting on Zeus’ chest. Appearing them out of nowhere, Zeus presented two goblets and the ever-full cup of wine.

  Ganymede sat up, reaching instinctively for the cup, but Zeus did not allow him to touch it. Instead, he handed Ganymede a goblet and, smiling softly, filled it himself.

  Ganymede had never been offered the nectar of the gods atop Olympus, had never been served, had never even considered the possibility, yet here Zeus was now, playing at being Ganymede’s cup-bearer.

  He held the goblet to his lips and tasted the wine. Its flavor couldn’t be explained with mortal terms. It was Olympus, it was immortality, it was godliness. They watched one another drink down their portion. Ganymede finished his quickly, eager to set down his goblet and kiss Zeus.

  He was kissed back tenderly, devotedly, perfectly, and when Zeus pulled away, he yearned to follow him. His presence was more powerful here on earth, and he ached for it now as he used to ache for home, when he’d first been taken. So much had changed. Zeus most of all.

  “I would risk it,” he decided. The flower tucked behind his ear was blown free by the wind and he scooped it gingerly from the grass, holding it in his hand. “If you wish it of me, I will return with you to Olympus and be your cup-bearer. Hera has done the worst she can do.”

  Zeus’ smile was enough to magnetize, and Ganymede leaned his head against the god’s shoulder. It hid the surprise on his face when his proposition was answered.

  “No.” Zeus stroked the length of Ganymede’s back, played with the tendrils of his golden hair. “I would rather you live a full and happy life, watch you live and age and die, than have you forever at risk of Hera’s rage.”

  Ganymede leaned back to look at him. It had not been the expected response, and it only made his feelings for the god overwhelm him. He rushed forward, kissing Zeus so hard he knocked him to his back.

  “I won’t risk you, Ganymede,” he said. “I never should have.”

  “I’ll age and die in the blink of an eye,” Ganymede told him.

  “I will blink very slowly then,” said Zeus, “so as not to miss a single moment. But I have something I want to show you.”

  Ganymede hummed curiously, laughing when Zeus rolled him onto his back in the grass. They lay side by side, the heavens far above them. Zeus pointed his finger and a burst of sparkling white lights dotted the night sky.

  “When you are gone, I will find you there, written forever in stars,” Zeus said.

  It was an image. The stars aligned as a picture, a boy with a cup in his hands, pouring water eternally into the heavens. “You’ve given me back my immortality,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll live for an eternity there,” Zeus said, then pressed his hand to his chest. And you will live here, he didn’t say, but Ganymede heard the declaration anyway, in the press of Zeus’ kiss and the warmth of his eyes.

  When they parted at sunrise, Zeus didn’t promise to return to him, and Ganymede didn’t ask. One doesn’t demand love from a god; they ar
e only thankful when they receive it. But Ganymede still felt his presence as he joined Troy’s troops for battle. He heard a flutter of winged sandals, and the rolling of jeweled knucklebones, and the glug of wine filling a cup.

  He raised his sword among his people, mortal as himself, and wondered what would become of him, what would become of Troy. A shadow swept over the land as they charged. A great golden eagle soared through the sky.

  Thunder rumbled, a whisper of goodbye, and Ganymede smiled.

  Persephone

  Take her head upon your knee;

  Say to her, “My dear, my dear,

  It is not so dreadful here.”

  -Edna St. Vincent Millay

  Eleusis was Core’s favorite place. Her mother often brought her to play in beautiful fields, but the fields of Eleusis were dearest to her. She could not place why. The grass was as green and soft there as it was in Lesbos, or in Thebes, or anywhere else her mother graced, spreading with her the bloom of flowers and seed of fruit. The air was as sweet, the animals as friendly.

  A few pigs, on a casual stroll away from their herder, snuffled past. She bent down to pet their heads; their spiraled tails whipped in appreciation.

  Perhaps the reason she adored the little stretch of land just west of Athens was because of the flowers. True enough, the blooms she picked were much the same as anywhere else, but sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, a special find would treat her with its blossom, springing up from the grass. She spied one such flower now, waving at her in the wind, its bright yellow petals beckoning her away from her attendants.

  “Core, don’t stray too far,” chided one of the nymphs; even chiding, her voice was sparkling and bright, like a crystal stream flowing gently over pebbles. Core was said to have a voice of similar loveliness. “When you laugh,” her mother always told her, “you light up all of Greece.”

  She laughed now, touching a hand to the nymph’s shoulder as the breeze sent her sunny hair flying. Earlier, her attendants had woven a dozen plaits through it, and she wore a fresh wreath of flowers at her crown already, but the yellow petals were calling to her. She would pick it and give it to her mother, for it was also Demeter’s favorite flower.