Eros

Chapter 2: Immortal Suicide

Eros glanced over his shoulder at Mount Olympus. So small and insignificant and unattainable. How could his mother be so cruel as to banish him from home—without his wings no less? How would he function without flight? His bow rendered him impotent without the gold arrowheads.

He was truly doomed.

A chill settled in his bones as he turned away, his jaw set. What was he to do? Where was he to go? A girl that would spite him. What mortal being could spite love itself? It was embitterment of the cheating soul that caused hatred, not pure love itself. And Eros was god of pure love. He could laugh himself to death, though that was impossible. Death belonged to mortals. Not the gods.

How dare his mother send him on an errand here!

If life among present-day mortals was not so hectic, Eros would have enjoyed a simple stroll through the little village at Mount Olympus' golden foot. No. Many conveyances traveled on round black wheels. There were new sounds, smells, sights for him to indulge his curiosity. But he found the people most intriguing. They wore many colors, no longer the simple chitons draped over bared shoulders adorned with ornate clasps. Their hair!

Eros could not help but stare at a woman whose hair did not lay in tight rolls of curls, or piled on the head tied with leaves or jewels. Rather, it stood on end and colored pink. She returned his gaze with intense curiosity until she earned a hard push from her male companion. Eros chuckled. It seemed his beauty mesmerized the women of this time as well.

He recognized several buildings, though they remained ghostly hints of their once powerful glory. How disturbing. It was no wonder the mortals had so easily forgotten.

Moving forward through the narrow winds of buildings of white wall and reddish roofs, Eros finally found himself at a place that reminded him of Aphrodite's palace. Its resemblance came from its plain pillars and white stretch of glossy floor cut with thin, black lines.

It was not until he set foot into so tight a space that he realized how unlike the mortals he was. And it had nothing to do with his stunning godliness. No. He gazed down his well-muscled form at his barely-there chitoniskos to his gold sandals. His hair could pass for modern times, considering it was no stranger than pink.

Everyone paused in their nonsensical tasks, their eyes as wide as their mouths. But Eros was used to such attention. He strolled past every one of them, having noticed a line of mortals standing and exchanging coins for tickets.

Perhaps it was his way out of this horrific place?

"Why, hello there, handsome," a girl said as she hitched a travel pack of sorts higher up her back.

Interesting. He clearly understood her tongue, though it was not the one he was acquainted with.

Eros shamelessly ran his gaze up and down her form. His eyebrow pitched. Why had he not noticed how the women wore leggings? He could see her every muscle's shape. He did not let his gaze stop until he met her eyes colored with heavy black. "Are you new in town?" She studied him as brazenly as he did her. "Or did you just come from practice?" She indicated his period clothing. "I can show you around."

Eros shook his head, his body tensing with remembrance at having been thrown from his home. He did not care to use his charm on her. If he possessed any.

"Oh, are you sure?" Her touch on his shoulder surprised him, but he made no move. "Who are you supposed to be? Perseus?" Again, her eyes lingered on his waistline.

"I am Eros," he said in her tongue. It was no longer the same as spoken by the gods, but had mutated to an unbecoming state.

"Eros? As in god of love?" Her other hand closed over his free shoulder.