Mortal Enemy

The Olympic Races

 Flower petals rain down over the dirt race track in the Panhellenic. Adoring fans lavishly give the athletes on the field below them praise, food and wine; straining to have their words heard over the droning pipes and the lyre's allegretto trills. All voices rise as the golden-haired and muscly Grigoropoulos walks in from the arched entryway between a set of Doric columns. He waves to everyone in the arena, then bows. He rises with both hands on his mouth and blows a kiss to anyone he can see, before taking his place at the starting line. As usual, he is the last to arrive.

A sudden and short rumble shakes the area, clattering the stones and eliciting a gasp from many in attendance. There is one more competitor walking through the arch! Striding in without a worry, his matted and greasy hair falls in tight curls past his shoulders and over his eyes and nose, so that only his broad, white grin can be seen. Raising both arms in triumph despite the silence of the crowd, he loudly stomps his extremely hairy feet. So dense, in fact, that it is as if the hair on his feet matches the hair on his head.

Grigoropoulos laughs uproariously, clasping the new-comer's hand and clapping his hairy back whilst showering him in greetings and equal amounts of compliments on his physique. The hairy man smiles sheepishly, then seems to doubt something deep in his mind. After taking a short, unplanned breath, he speaks.

"I had heard that you challenged me, Grigoropoulos! I have come to honor my name, and to show you a man fast enough to finish before you have even made it past the first turn!"

The crowd makes a communal, "Ooh," before murmuring amongst themselves until...

Grigoropoulos laughs, even louder this time, "Such a strong mouth for such a hairy man! I recall issuing no such challenge, but I shall take it all the same! Let's see if the hair on your feet scares away the Aurai enough to let you pass without a breath of air."

"No such challenge?" The hairy man shows a flash of confusion before stifling it into his smile. "No matter, let us race!"

"Opa!" chants the crowd.

The thirteen racers all take their positions at the starting line, when the signal is given. Grigoropoulos and the hairy man both take a quick lead in the first length, while giving the appearance of hardly trying. The golden-haired runner smiles at the long, thick curly-haired runner before he begins flying over huge stretches of dirt just like a lion giving chase. The new-comer chuckles, picking up so much speed that tufts of his hair come falling from all over his body, coating the runners behind them in hairballs. As more of his hair falls away, the tips of wings on his head and his feet start poking their way through the dense follicles.

Into the first of two turns, the new-comer matches pace with Grigoropoulos, who laughs. The golden boy pulls out strength reserves from deep inside, making his footfalls come faster than water drops below waterfalls. Grigoropoulos sprints further and further away from the new-comer, until they can see each other on either side of the second, and last, turn. Assured of victory in the last stretch, Grigoropoulos turns his attention to the crowd. In this lapse, the new-comer's hair falls off completely, revealing himself to be Hermes. Still hardly breaking a sweat, Hermes loops around the turn quick enough as to have vanished and reappeared on the other side.

Grigoropoulos hears the sudden change in the crowd, responding to the absurd skill of the new-comer. He flips around, wide-eyed staring at the Messenger God charging straight towards him. With anything left that he can muster, he flings himself in several large lunges across the end of the last length. He flops to the ground with a smile, luxuriating under the glory being foisted upon him by the crowd above.

Hermes takes a deep breath with his hands on his hips, no wear of exertion evident anywhere in his form. He walks over to where Grigoropoulos lies and offers him a hand up. In a thunderclap, he wraps the mortal athlete into an embrace.

"My boy, my boy! You have made your old man so proud! We'll make a God of Swiftness out of you yet!" His pride bubbles out of him in boisterous laughter, shared by Grigoropoulos and supported by the cheering audience.

While hugging his father, Grigoropoulos has the laurel wreath placed around his head by the host of the Panhellenic. Wine flows freely from a fan's amphora into his mouth. More gold, more wine, more glory for this young man than he could have ever anticipated in one single moment!

The Sorcerer shouts in rage from the furthest seat in the arena. How could this have failed? There is no way that the cur, Grigoropoulos, is the son of Hermes! In a fit of anger, he takes out a small mirror and draws a circle with his own blood on it.

"Nemesis! How dare you fail me!"

She says nothing, only laughs. Only laughs, louder and louder. More and more directed at shaming the Sorcerer. Oh, the endless, endless laughter!

He smashes the mirror onto the ground. In one last glimpse to ensure that it is broken, he sees the laughing mouth of Nemesis. And when he points his eyes at anything vaguely reflective, there are her lips, bouncing between the giggles. The sea, the fountains, swords, hair clips, puddles; Nemesis. Quartz, polished marble, and glass all bear her visage. Always there, no matter where he looks, no matter how long he waits before opening his eyes again; Nemesis laughing. He can't meet anyone's eyes, choosing only to stare at the plain dirt on his way out the arena. But, no, it can't be. In the light shining through the clouds, she is there again; Nemesis laughing across the sky.

He can take no more. No more, no more!

He rapidly unsheathes his dagger, closing his eyes to the blade. With painful and wicked pops, he snaps his eyes out of his head and severs the cord that binds them still. Pouring tears and blood onto whatever it is that feels solid, yet loose, beneath him, he lets out one last cry before all of his strength fades: "Nemesis!"