THE GODDESS WAS NEVER really able to fully fathom death until that very moment on the leather-clad backseat of that gods-forbidden, abnormally fast-moving, black Chrysler, murmuring her prayers to every god she could name at the top of her head. The anxiety burns in her chest like slow-spreading fire, illuminating in bright red and scorching her cheeks. It was the very same fire that the dark-haired girl beside her has been battling with from the very moment she stepped into that vehicle.
Hedone chose that time to peek out of one of the heavily-tinted windows of that gods-forbidden, abnormally fast-moving, black Chrysler. The goddess momentarily tried to ignore the uncomfortable restriction her seatbelt provided and the highly disturbing Ancient Greek chanting from a petrified Kharis, and focused on the window and its hazy display of unfamiliar streets. It has only been barely thirty minutes since Angelos dragged the two women into his car whilst complaining about how extremely inconvenient a plane to France would be, and after those migraine-inducing thirty minutes the car finally skidded to a full stop. Hedone draws out a relieved sigh.
Angelos looks over one broad shoulder with his sunglasses now perched atop of his head and one perfect eyebrow raised, judging the two disheveled messes at the back of his automobile. One of them in particular had her eyes squeezed tight, still absorbed with her seemingly sinister ancient chant, "Kharis, stop that. We're here." At that, the Grace opens one doe-like eye and proceeds to blushing in all existing shades of red. Hedone barely hears her mutter something in reply, but she's sure the sentence comprises of the words 'sorry' and 'scared'.
"If my father's records are correct, then this is the Rye household." The dark-skinned demigod informs them as soon as they stepped out from the Chrysler which was now parked in front of a two-story house with cemented walls in peeling yellow paint, protected by a roof built in bricks—both of which were being devoured by moss. The window panes are slightly cracked although some must have fallen victim to the neighborhood kids as they were completely shattered. Angelos once again clear his throat, ". . . Or what once was."
The blustery winds of Strasbourg blew at the goddess' hair so that each one of its golden tendrils whipped at her now tear-stained cheeks. She had no idea why she was crying, perhaps it was the false hope Aphrodite let her cling to for a little while, or maybe it was merely the sense of burning in her eyes from mote; either way, the winds called out to her pain in that moment, howling its melancholic song.
"Boreas." Hedone whispers through the saltiness of her tears and into the chilling gusts, acknowledging the God of the Northern Winds and his resounding lullaby for the ill-fated girl as he had done many, many times before in attempt to soothe her in her breaking. He is a friend the goddess held dearly.
The whole of Olympus must have been in Hedone's favor for the events which transpired not long after sought to relieve her affliction. When a heavy-set woman of her late sixties had hollered at them from the equally fractured abode next door, demanding to know what their business with the forsaken house was in her croaky, heavily-accented voice, Angelos had gathered every single ounce of charm he had in his all-honeyed and bronzed godly being and squeezed every piece of information about Lukas Rye out of that poor, unsuspecting woman.
"From what I heard, the man was windowed and died in war. They said he had a son but no one really knows about his whereabouts. Although someone was just here a few weeks ago asking the same thing as you, fetching young man too. But I highly doubt it was the son."
Before anybody knew it, the three of them were back in that gods-forbidden, abnormally-fast moving black Chrysler again. This time, Hedone was sitting at the passenger's seat with hope dancing in her eyes and that all-too-familiar flame burning in her chest once more, some part of her knew that the man who came before them could give her the answers. She cranes her head to Angelos inserting his key into the ignition as she adjusts the strap of her seatbelt. A laugh bubbles from the back of the goddess' throat as she concludes: this boy is sure to bring the sun to its knees one day.
—NOT SO RARE AUTHOR'S NOTE
A short while turned out to be a fùcking day, i'm sorry. The last line is an excerpt from one of Rupi Kaur's brilliant poems. I love her to death.
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cupid's curse
Romance❝the endings are always disastrous.❞ an accursed g o d d e s s bound to a never-ending cycle of unreturned love. a charming m o r t a l suffering through the unwanted attention from the many women whom he has at his every whim. © fiona | 2016
