Eros

Chapter One

Sight. I can see. That was good. Right? Yes. That was good. He could see. What could he see?

A bed—of some sorts. Not the type he was used to. Walls. Four of them. And a roof. A fuck all, boring, plain Jane kind of roof. It had nothing on the ceiling he was used to back home. There were no paintings. No fine decorations. Just blankness.

Hearing. I can hear. That was also good. He could hear his own heavy breathing. He could hear  noise of some sort like speaking, but it was stifled by thick layers of brick and wall. But he could hear. Hearing was good.

Taste. I can taste. The air that he breathed was unclean, polluted almost, but there were perfumes in it too. Something sweet and womanly. A rosy scent, mixed with joss sticks. Something sexy.

Fuck, wherever that perfume was coming from, the smell was intoxicating. His body responded to it, aroused.

What else was there?

Oh, right—smell. He could smell that perfume too. Like an alarum to his body. His skin prickled with vitality. Whatever that smell was, he needed to find the source. To breathe it all in. To choke on it. To bottle it up and keep it for himself, selfish.

And touch. I can—can't touch. Well, he could touch. He could touch himself, feeling the heat of his own body—but the carpet beneath him was a different story. It looked soft, comfy, and yet all he felt was nothing.

That wasn't right.

If this wasn't fixed, his right hand would be left with all of the work. Where's the fun in that?

Eros enjoyed his, uh, activities far too much.

I'll look into that later.

There were more important things to worry about right now.

Take, for instance, where am I?

Perhaps more pressingly than that, he needed to figure out how he was here.

Eros had lived a long life. He knew dead men didn't wake up in the middle of nowhere and simply start walking.

Dead? Now, why would he think that? Eros wasn't dead. Clearly he wasn't dead. He wouldn't be here if he was. Eros couldn't die. Gods couldn't be killed.

A lot about his situation wasn't normal.

This didn't look at all like his palace. For starters, there were no fluffy pink quilts in his palace, nor were there vanities stacked so high with such bizarre jewellery. Fuck it, he wished his palace had this smell about it.

Gone were his golden walls and high-climbing windows.

Eros tried to jog his memory, but nothing came to mind. His head felt cloudy, like a big old gate was blocking him from getting at something important. Something vitally important. What had he been doing before he got here? How did I get here? Scratch that. Where is here?

His head felt heavy.

On shaky feet, Eros stumbled to a stand, his wings steadying him.

At least they were still intact.

One of his two most important facets.

His steps felt out of tune with his body, as though he'd forgotten how to walk. As if he'd forgotten how to exist.

In this room, he felt confined by the low hanging ceilings. By the clutter. By the lack of space. There was no taking flight in a room such as this. The walls were closing in on him, caging him in. I'm a trapped bird. How insulting.