Here’s the full story of Narcissus, drawn primarily from Ovid’s *Metamorphoses* (Book III), with some additional details from other Greek and Roman sources, fleshed out for a complete narrative:
Narcissus was born in Boeotia, a region of ancient Greece, to the river god Cephissus and the nymph Liriope. His birth was marked by beauty even as an infant, his features so striking that they hinted at the extraordinary allure he’d grow into. Liriope, like any concerned mother, sought to know her son’s fate. She visited the blind seer Tiresias, famed for his prophetic wisdom (and for once being turned into a woman by Hera, but that’s another tale). Liriope asked if her son would live a long life. Tiresias, cryptic as ever, replied, “Yes, if he does not come to know himself.” The words puzzled her, but she let them pass, trusting in her son’s apparent health and charm.
Narcissus grew into a youth of breathtaking beauty—golden hair, piercing eyes, a sculpted face that seemed carved by the gods themselves. By sixteen, he was a vision, and his looks drew admirers like moths to a flame. Young men and women, mortals and nymphs alike, fell for him, their hearts aching with desire. But Narcissus was aloof, his heart encased in ice. He reveled in his beauty yet scorned anyone who dared love him, treating their affection as an annoyance, a burden he didn’t deign to bear.
Among those who loved him was Echo, a mountain nymph with a tragic twist to her tale. Echo had once been a chatterbox, her voice lively and bright, until she crossed Hera. Zeus, ever the philanderer, used Echo to distract Hera with endless talk while he dallied with other nymphs. When Hera discovered the ruse, she cursed Echo, stripping her of her own words. From then on, Echo could only repeat what others said, her voice a hollow echo of its former self. Still, she roamed the forests, her beauty intact, her heart open—until she saw Narcissus.
One day, as Narcissus hunted deer in the woods, Echo spotted him. Her heart leapt, and she followed, silent at first, waiting for him to speak. When he called out, “Is anyone here?” she echoed back, “Here!” He turned, intrigued. “Come to me!” he said, and she replied, “To me!” Stepping from the trees, she rushed toward him, arms outstretched, her face alight with longing. But Narcissus recoiled. “Hands off!” he snapped. “I’d sooner die than let you have me!” Echo, crushed, could only repeat, “Have me…” She fled, humiliated, hiding in caves and cliffs. Her body wasted away from grief, her bones turning to stone, until only her voice lingered, repeating the words of passersby.
Echo wasn’t alone in her pain. Other spurned lovers cursed Narcissus for his cruelty, their pleas rising to the heavens. Nemesis, the goddess of divine retribution, heard them. She saw Narcissus’s pride—his refusal to love anyone but himself—and decided to act. Her justice was poetic, her punishment a mirror to his flaw.
It happened on a warm day, after a hunt. Narcissus, flushed and thirsty, wandered through the forest until he came upon a pool. Its water was pristine, undisturbed by shepherds or beasts, framed by soft grass and shaded by trees. He knelt to drink, but as he leaned over, he caught sight of his reflection. The image stunned him: eyes like stars, hair curling like Apollo’s, cheeks flushed with youth, a neck smooth as marble. He didn’t know it was himself—he thought it a spirit, a being of unearthly beauty living in the water. He fell in love.
“Greetings,” he whispered, and the reflection’s lips moved too. He smiled; it smiled back. He reached out, fingers brushing the surface, and the image rippled but returned, gazing at him with the same longing he felt. “Why do you flee me?” he asked, and the silent mimicry drove him mad. He spoke to it for hours, praising its beauty, begging it to emerge. He wept, and the tears blurred the image, only for it to reappear when the water stilled. Days passed. He forgot food, sleep, the world beyond the pool. His strength faded, but his obsession grew.
In some tellings, realization dawned. “It’s me,” he gasped, understanding Tiresias’s prophecy. The knowledge broke him—he could never have what he loved most. In others, he never grasped it, simply pining until he collapsed. Either way, his end was the same. “Farewell,” he sighed, his voice weak, and Echo, nearby, whispered it back: “Farewell.” He died there, his head resting by the water, eyes fixed on the face he adored.
The nymphs came to mourn him—Echo among them—but where his body lay, they found only a flower: the narcissus, white petals surrounding a golden heart, its head bent as if gazing at its own reflection in the earth. The gods had their justice, and the world a new bloom.