Clockwork

ZEUS

OH THE MIGHTY ZEUS, king of the gods, reduced to a figure in the corner of a bar.

Five o' clock shadows grace his face, hovering at the edges of his jaw. Salt and peppered hair curls at the tips of his ears.

He's still handsome in an egalitarian way, even with the bags under his eyes and tanned, wrinkled, pockmarked skin. Constellations dot his arms, like the stars themselves have blessed him (which, historically speaking, isn't exactly all that false).

The wry smile he wears often gives off a humorous air only others of his kind -- alive in the barest of ways -- would recognize as a man who's all too ready to die.

A weathered Adonis, marshaled by time.

The storms in his eyes belie his identity; constantly moving and striking lighting within those depths -- they're the only thing he has left to tie him to the throne.

Sometimes, he stares at himself in the mirror, long and hard, at those eyes.

He sees the bloodshed and wars and dead bodies mirrored in them every time he glances at his reflection.

He fucking hates mirrors; he doesn't like to be reminded of his mistakes.

Not back then, and most certainly not now.

Zeus sits in the corner of the bar with a half drunk beer and a wish to forget.

He cannot however, because he is a god - the king of the gods, in fact - and gods do not simply forget.

It is one of the curses of being divine.

The memories fade, become foggy, but will never completely disappear.

He does not know if this is a blessing or a curse.

(It seems, as of late, that it is always the latter.)

What he can do, however is repel the memories. Push them down so far that they won't resurface.

The alcohol helps. Dulls his senses so he doesn't have to remember, doesn't have to be reminded of so and so when something else occurs.

He's been a regular as of late.

The bartender wordlessly slides another draft as soon as he drains the one his fingers have curled around.

No questions asked.

No questions needed.

Just a cold draft of beer, a steadily growing tab, and an aching, breaking soul.

"Hey handsome, why don't we --"

A tall brunette whispers an explicit promise, voice smoky and sultry in his ear.

There is a tan of a ring around his fourth finger. The white flesh waves at him as he looks down momentarily, disguising a sad smile.

He doesn't wear the gold band anymore, keeps it in his pocket for when he's feeling particularly reminiscent.

"Sure, sugar."

He croaks out, concentrating on her sultry lips, her curvy hips, anything but the burning in his veins, his lips, his throat.

Cheater.

Her voice rips through his head.

Another gulp of alcohol takes care of that problem, dulling her screechy voice.

Cheater.

He used to think that she was the fairest in all the land. Now he sees the sludge dripping out of her mouth and the black around her heart and wonders how he'd been so stupid.

Cheater.

He used to think that she had the loveliest voice. Now it nags at him in the darkest of hours and reminds him of the fucking mistakes that he always seems to make around her.

Cheater.

That's right, he wants to scream. That's what I am. A liar, a cheat; the king of the motherfucking gods.

"You comin'?"

He slams a roll of dollar bills on the counter and takes the flavor of the night's hand like a desperate man drowning and follows her home, conveniently ignoring the weight of wedding vows nearly several thousand years old sitting in his jean pocket.

Cheater.

The king of the gods does not forget.

He just wishes he could.