a mother's love
The first time Calliope held her son, she knew that he was doomed.
The baby, green-eyed and rosy-cheeked, lay contentedly in her arms, cooing softly at his mother. He was beautiful –– the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, so sweet, so innocent, so mortal. And though her sisters, the Muses, fawned over him, laughing in delight at his necessity for sound, she could not bring herself to join them. He was too delicate, too fragile. His life would be but a memory compared to theirs.
Only Apollo seemed to understand. The sun-soaked god, golden-eyed and amber-haired, gazed down at the child, pressing a gentle touch against his forehead.
“Tragedy will take him.” he spoke softly, voice weighed down with prophecy. “There will be nothing you can do, my Calliope.”
“I will do everything for him.” she swore fiercely, curling the child protectively into her chest.
“I know you will, my Muse.”
The baby cooed again, and Calliope felt the urge to bring him away from this place, to shelter him somewhere far from the world, a place where fate was powerless against the onslaught of her love. But this was a young world, and she did not know where to go. If there was such a place, it was for other gods, other men.
“Oh, my little Sirius.” she whispered, running a tender hand over his dark curls. “The brightest star in the sky. There is nothing I will not protect you from.”
It was a young world, and nothing so beautiful had ever been born before. And as she held Sirius in her arms, Calliope knew that nothing would again.
––
Calliope kept Sirius close to her in those days, for he was a curious child, and she knew the world was never kind to those who questioned it. Yet she also knew that, in the end, it would not be the world that hurt him, but himself. The earth, in truth, delighted in him, and would give him everything he asked of it. All he had to do was sing, and the earth sang with him, blossoming at the sweetness of his voice. If she could keep him near her forever, she thought, then perhaps his fate would be undone. But tragedy is not easily denied, and it, too, keeps company.
They were beautiful days, filled with honey and laughter, running through the sunlit woods and swimming in the mountain streams. Whenever Sirius sang, the woods themselves would hold their breath –– birds peering from their nests, deer nipping at his fingers, lions laying down to rest at his feet. Never before had there been such a song, such a singer. And Calliope watched, aching, as he grew and grew, this beautiful boy, her gentle, enchanting son. What harm could come to him, when all the world adored him?
In the evenings, when they lay together on their beds of sweet-smelling aster, she would draw him close to her and point up at the stars. “You will shine brighter than your namesake, my little one.” she whispered, stroking his hair and pressing a kiss to the alabaster of his forehead. “You will outburn the stars themselves.”
And he would sleep, comforted by the brilliance of his destiny.
––
It did not take long for the gods to notice his presence. Word had spread along Zephyrus’ wind of Calliope’s son, whose song moved even the earth to tears. And they were curious, in the way that only gods can be. Immortality is long, and gifts such as Sirius’ were rare and covetous surprises.
The first visitor was Apollo.
“Hello, my little star.”
He was beautiful, all burnished gold and sharp, shining teeth, too bright to look at for too long. Sirius found himself flushing, skin turning warm and rosy in Apollo’s burning heat. The sun caught his face, illuminating the fineness of his features and the frailty of his bones.
“You make a lovely songbird.”
“I know you.” Sirius said quietly, the song dying on his lips. “Have I always known you?”
“I was there when you were born. Whenever you sing, I sing too.”
Apollo tilted his head, giving Sirius a slight smile as his eyes glittered like twinkling flame. In his hand, he held a strange offering of gold, a frame strung with pale, thin thread the colour of amber.
“I have a gift for you, sweetest one. Will you take it?”
Sirius rose from where he sat beneath a laurel tree, its arm-like branches heavy beneath the burden of its leaves. Tall and willowy, he was growing into himself, fifteen years old and already rivalling even Apollo himself with his beauty. Sharp, angular features contrasted the soft youth of his face, his dark hair spilling down his shoulders in long, loose curls. Stretching out a hand, his fingers met Apollo’s, curving along the tender frame of gold.
“What is it?’
“A lyre, made by many-turning Hermes. There is no sound equal to it in heaven or on earth.”
“What will you have of me in return?” Sirius asked easily, meeting the god’s scorching gaze with unsettling intensity as a coy smile curved along his rosy lips. “I know better than to take a god’s gift freely.”
Apollo laughed, the sound sending a thrill down Sirius’ spine as its richness caught the sweet-scented air.
“I ask nothing more of you than what you can give.”
Strong fingers grasped Sirius’ chin, turning his beautiful face upwards towards Apollo’s. Sirius’ breath caught in his throat, and he knew there was nothing this god could ask of him that he would not give, just to bask in his light for a moment longer.
Apollo leaned closer, his lips ghosting over Sirius’, hot and burning as an aching summer’s day. “Play my lyre.” He murmured, his voice low and honeyed, golden hair caressing Sirius’ flushed cheeks. “And when you do, you will worship at my altar, and your devotion will be mine forever.”
“I will worship at your altar, and my devotion will be yours forever.” Sirius whispered as Apollo’s lips met his, the rush of heat a prayer, a promise, scorching the very centre of his soul.
Apollo’s hands guided his to the amber strings, and he could have sworn the laurels sighed as the music echoed along the breeze, the sound sweeter than any song he had ever sung.