I - Olympian Protection Program

1.2K 93 67

I am incredibly high.

I giggle to myself as I take a drag on my blunt, already feeling the buzz fading. It never lasts too long. Immortality has some interesting side effects, and the speed with which substances burn off in my system is one of them.

I drown my disappointment with a glug of wine straight from the bottle. A little bit of it splashes out of my mouth and onto my white t-shirt, staining it with a dull, purple mottle.

Everything sucks.

My eyes glaze over as I stare at the TV where an episode of 30 Rock plays. I've probably seen this particular episode one-hundred times. Liz Lemon is about to coerce her upstairs neighbor to move out by peeing into a vase.

I shift my gaze to the ceiling: white, blank, a little bit of rippling in the paint, and a splash of tea-colored staining from years of shoddy radiator maintenance. The chandelier suspended in the middle of the vast, white expanse shudders abruptly. I don't know what my upstairs neighbors are up to, but it sometimes sounds like they're trying to bring down the entire building.

Technically, I could look into their apartment and find out, but some mysteries are better left unsolved.

A sharp, bright-blue pain tingles at the base of my neck. I've been ignoring it for the last twenty minutes. It's a primal, archaic, forgotten feeling; the presence of power. It tugs at me, begging me to pay attention. I press my fingers to my skin; a hot, tight spot where my hair meets the collar of my shirt. I smack at it to distract from the pulse.

The shock of Zeus' summons roared through my living room with the force of a hurricane and made my hair stand on end. Electricity surged through my apartment, and every single lightbulb exploded. His call is what has illuminated these long-dormant sensations.

Fuck off. I send the comment back to him through my mind.

I'm not sure if I'm actively trying to provoke him, but my name, my true name, bursts through the room yet again: cool hissing wind on a hot, humid summer day. The scent of irises and lilacs perfuming a sunlight-dappled, violent air. Alive and taking up space, my name is a cry that sucks away all the oxygen and compresses my lungs until I am sure I will pass out.

"Shit," I sit up on the edge of the couch. He has called me twice in twenty minutes. Usually, decades go by before the second call.

Names in the Pantheon are essential; they carry certain weight and obligations. When another god speaks our true name aloud, we are forced to answer and appear to whomever the harkening comes. I call Zeus "Zeus" and not his given name (which is close to but not exactly "icy river running cleft between mountains of fire scented with blue stardust") because if I did so, he would be forced to appear in the living room of my apartment. I don't need that kind of drama in my life.

Despite the weed and the wine, I'm actually on a cleanse right now, thankyouverymuch.

Anywho, when another god calls you, you have three chances to answer. As I deliberate, it gets harder to ignore the dormant strength and command bubbling up to the surface: my birthright, my power, suppressed for far too long.

I weigh my options: wait for the third call and risk setting my entire building on fire by the surge of my abilities combined with Zeus's anger or go to Olympus now. If I wait, there will be destruction and the slick feeling of annoyed shame when Hermes is forced to escort me. If I go now I have to go to Olympus.

Either way, I am looking at a lose-lose situation.

I stand up and shake out my hands. They are numb and heavy as a perceptively alive feeling radiates through my body. I grind my teeth in annoyance at my obedience.

Eris and the Mortal GodWhere stories live. Discover now