FALLEN (A GODS OF OLYMPUS NOVELLA)

CHAPTER ONE

    I remember everything. I remember the fall, the loneliness and the constant fear of looking over my shoulder. How these things still haunt me to this day in a modern world. A world filled with skyscrapers as tall as the sky itself and cars that not only run on gasoline, but electricity as well. I sit now with my journal open, a marvelous invention one that allows me to put into words a story. A story that stretches far and wide and is steeped in history. A story that tells of my earliest days in Ancient Rome. How I became immortal and forced to serve the Gods. Yes you read that right. And no, this isn't some made up story. It's a memoir.

    I sit now with my pen gently tapping against the page as my mind wanders off into space as I try to come up with the next perfect line. The hour is late, the air smelling like fresh rain after a storm. Leaves continue to fall outside at a leisurely pace displaying vibrant colors of red, yellow and orange. I sniff the air and catch the scent of dark-roasted coffee with a sprinkle of sugar and a dash of cream. A female server brings the small cup on a tiny saucer to an elderly gentleman who sits all alone reading a newspaper from The London Times. The headline reads THE WAR IS OVER. After nearly two decades, the end of an era is upon us.

    But that's beside the point. For now, at least. A billowing cloud of steam rises from my cup of hot tea with a slice of lemon, next to a partially eaten croissant. Normal food has no love for me. Though the feeling is entirely mutual. I hunger for something else. One that does not require food, but with a kiss. Ah, I see now that I have your attention. That's what you've been waiting for, isn't it? Did you really believe that I was going to sit here and reveal all my secrets to you in just one afternoon? Now where's the fun in that?

    A distressed leather-bound journal lays open in front of me with a black pen in my right hand, the tip faintly scratching across the flawless white paper as my thoughts turn into words. Just like the rain outside, the cafe continues with its noisy chatter. I look up for a moment and stare at the faces of the men and women who have come to this very spot to take a break from their everyday lives. For everyone here, there is a story to tell. Mine however, acts more like a timeline. A timeline of events that spans across many centuries. Mmm. Hard to believe I've been around that long. The world keeps on spinning and when humans die, I most certainly do not. Sure I still look the same with my forest green eyes and dark brown hair. But my age is another matter in itself. From afar, most people tell me I look younger than I really am. Though I wish for nothing more than to believe them. I do find their compliments to be charming at best.

    "Is there anything else I can get you?" The server asked with a pleasant smile.

    "No, thank you. I'm all set."

    A flash of lightning cracks across the afternoon sky in an attempt to shake those who are unaware of it. But not me, I am aware of everything. I see things others do not. A fine trick to have in my arsenal. I watch the old man with his thin white hair and quivering hands as the cup begins to shake, nearly spilling his coffee all over himself. At the counter is a soldier returning from the war dressed in his finest military uniform with all of his possessions slung over his shoulder in a duffel bag as he waits for his order. I write now in silence, returning to the task at hand. My hand moves across the current page, the sensuous smell of the black ink turning into words that are now finally being written after a millennia. Why am I doing this now, you might ask? I do not know. The question is a mystery even in itself. Perhaps it's time to tell about my earliest days growing up in Ancient Rome. When time was more of a simpler nature, before I was kidnapped and turned into what I am now. Ah, darkness, my old friend. How you never cease to escape me. A shadow that constantly haunts me at every turn. Yet there are times when I can out best you, but you always seem to find a way back to me. You say we're old friends. Whereas I call us enemies. I can feel your presence nearby in the form of a man sitting at a table not far from where I sit. His trench coat hangs over the back of his chair, still dripping from the rain. His head is shaved close to the scalp to give him a more distinctive look. I catch his gaze and respond with a flirtatious smile, one that makes him straighten his backside in defiance.