My Immortal Ex-Boyfriend

When I found out he played the lyre, I knew I was in trouble, as I’d always had a weakness for musicians. I was young, then, for a goddess. I blame that for what happened. 
My twentieth birthday came and went with little acknowledgment from my father, Zeus. That evening, I wandered far from Mount Olympus. It was a golden June evening, with light streaming through the leaves of trees. I wandered by a pond, which looked as if it had been touched by Midas himself. Frogs and crickets sang; by then, the birds had turned in. That was when I met Stefanos. 
He sat by the pond, holding a lyre loosely in his sleeping hands. At this point, I had met many a god, but I still thought Stefanos was the most beautiful man I’d seen. He had golden-brown hair that fell to his shoulders, framing a chiselled face. He had the beginnings of a beard, and it suited him. His body looked strong and lithe. 
I had heard of my father’s many obsessions with various women. I had never understood them, feeling myself immune to the charms of mortals and immortals alike. But as I watched that man sleep, my heart quickened in my chest, and I wondered, was this the part of my father that lived in me—this wild and reckless passion? For I saw him and loved him. That’s the truth. 
I wanted to look upon his sleeping face forever, but as if sensing my gaze, he stirred. Lazily, he blinked his eyes open to reveal irises of a deep brown. They focused on my face, and then he was on his feet, his lyre clattering to the ground.
“What the—“
His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest,” I said. “I was only passing by.”
A faint flush of embarrassment had come to his cheeks, and he tried to cover it by reaching for his lyre. 
“You play?” I asked. 
“Very well,” he replied. “I am the best of my father’s sons, even if I am the youngest.”
Several millennia later, I see this for what it was: a red flag. But at the time, I was impressed by his boldness. 
“Show me,” I said, settling down on the ground. 
He watched me in confusion. “Why?”
“Because it’s my birthday.”
At this, he smiled, and it was a sight that would have made even the frigid, faithful Hera swoon. 
He began to pluck the strings of the lyre with a proficiency that made my heart beat faster. As he finished, I applauded, and he bowed.
“What is a fair maiden doing out here alone on her birthday?” he asked, placing the lyre aside.
Cautiously, I moved to sit across from him. 
“My father did not wish to celebrate.”
“And what of your mother?”
I smiled ruefully. “She’s a tree nymph who wished to have nothing to do with me.”
“A tree nymph.”
I nodded, and he watched me with new curiosity. “What’s your name?”
“Hero.”
“After Hera?”
“My mother hoped to placate her by naming me after her. Unfortunately, she still hates me.”
He laughed. “How can you know if a goddess hates you?”
“She’s made it quite clear,” I replied. 
“Why did your mother wish to placate her?”
I hesitated. “I was born out of wedlock…and her husband is my father.”
I watched as the pieces came together in his mind, and I saw the exact moment he realized who I was. His eyes widened.
“You’re a goddess,” he said.
I inclined my head slightly, smiling, and he smiled back. Now, a normal mortal would have grovelled at this point, but Stefanos was no ordinary mortal. Instead, he said, “And what did you think of my song, Hero?”
“I loved it,” I replied with a giggle (and how I cringe to think of it now!). 
“I composed it myself,” he boasted. 
“Wow.”
He smiled at me again, and it was a smile I knew I could look upon forever.
“Will I see you again, Hero?” 
“Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll meet here again.”
He nodded, and I watched him walk away. At the time, I found his walk beautiful and powerful, but now I can picture the exact walk and call it what it was: a strut. 
Ah, foolish goddess! I wish I could go back and tell her to leave him to spend his next evening with the toads, who no doubt were more suitable company for such an arrogant fool. But the next evening, I came back just as the stars were appearing, one by one, in the tapestry of night overhead. 
Stefanos was already there, dressed in armour. 
“You’re going somewhere?” I asked him, frowning.
“To war,” he replied cheerfully. “I may prove myself a great warrior…or, I suppose, I may die.”
The thought was enough to make tears spring to my eyes. He stepped forward to brush one of my tears away, his hand lingering on my cheek, and then, before I could react, his lips brushed against mine.
I could believe I was the daughter of Zeus, for I could feel the heat and electricity pulsing between us as our lips and tongues entwined, and his hands began to move my waist, pulling me ever closer.
“Remember my name,” he murmured, as he pulled away. “I am Stefanos, the greatest of—“
“No. I won’t remember your name,” I replied. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll ensure you come back to me.”
Though I had never done it before, I felt for the spark of immortality within me, the ever-burning flame, and I gave some of it to him, until I could feel his own fire burning just as brightly.
“It's done,” I said. “You’re immortal.”
He smiled widely, showing off his even, white teeth. “Excellent. Thank you, Hero.”
He kissed me again, and then, with a jaunty wave, he strutted back through the woods.
For a year, every night, I returned to that pond. I watched it grow thick with fallen leaves, stiff with ice, brown with mud water. Finally, when summer returned once again, so did Stefanos. 
“It’s you,” I cried as I saw him.
I ran into his arms, but I sensed a resistance there. He tolerated my embrace, then gripped my arms gently. 
“Hero, I think we should see other people.”
Never make your first boyfriend immortal.