Winner of the Legends in Love contest hosted by YARomance, mythandlegend  and WattpadShortStory.

Flowers in pots, flowers on the floor, and flowers hanging down walls—the whole place reeked of flowers. She gagged.

A melodious voice invaded her ears, "Cardea, you okay?"

Cardea rolled her eyes and turned. "Yep, everything's good and dandy, Flora."

Flora bestowed a smile upon her and floated towards the altar of her temple, adorned with yet more flowers in all their gaudy unsightliness. The gods and goddesses embraced her with smiles so sickly sweet, the repugnant hyacinths paled in comparison.

Floralia wasn't celebrated in the mortal world anymore, but that didn't stop Olympus from throwing this party in Flora's honor. Cardea crossed her arms and pouted.

A dancing spark on a golden helmet drew her attention to Minerva, who stood chatting with Juno. Several nymphs hovered nearby, swathed in the trendiest togas.

Cardea rolled her eyes again. When do I get my fan club? Never. Because I'm the goddess of door hinges!

A memory invaded her head like a Trojan horse—that of a nymph who had the audacity to blurt to her face, "Wait, there's a goddess of door hinges?"

Um, hello? Rude? Cardea huffed and stalked out.

Her mind drifted to the tales of mortals—of lives fraught with uncertainty, odysseys of love and battles fought on the legendary "internet". She belonged with the mortals, traversing the halls of the Elysium of youth—the high school.

When she emerged outside, the sun assaulted her with its blinding whiteness. She headed towards the golden gates of Olympus, past towering marble columns. Puffy Olympian clouds yielded underfoot and reduced her disgruntled stomp to a weightless shuffle.

At the gates, she found the satyr on duty snoring in the sentry booth.

She rapped on the window.

The satyr jolted awake and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Huh—what? Holy butt of Bacchus, you scared me!"

"Uhuh," Cardea intoned. "Can you call me a chariot?"

"The charioteers are at the party—"

"Never mind." She opened a telepathic link, and thankfully, it connected. "Merc, I need your sandals."

Cardea hoisted her new backpack and admired herself in the mirror. "I look totally mortal!"

She was in Mercury's studio apartment in the mortal city. He had insisted on accompanying her, and he now lay sprawled on the couch like a lazy gryphon.

"You do," Mercury said, flicking the feathery wings of his sandals, which hovered around his head. "But that's not going to help you blend in. Not today."

She scowled at him. "What do you mean?"

"It's prom day."

"Prom?"

"Jupiter's beard..." He facepalmed. "You have no clue, do you? It's, like, this party."

Great, more parties! But maybe mortal ones are fun. Cardea tugged at her tee. "Well, I need a dress then."

"Yep."

"So? Get me one, Merc! And I also need a chariot!"

Mercury got to his feet and stretched. "The stuff I do for you goddesses..."

"Hmph."

As evening drew near, he returned with a black toga dress.

Cardea donned it. "Freaking Tartarus, this dress is great! Thanks!"

Mercury made a theatrical gesture towards the door. "Your chariot awaits you, goddess."

She let out a giggle and glided out.

The "chariot" deposited her at the high school. Her wide eyes feasted on its mortal-ness. There were no ridiculous columns and no slippery marble. She followed the stream of chattering teens to the auditorium, which stood out like a beacon against the darkening sky.

Perhaps it was due to her divine aura, but when she entered, heads turned and conversations stuttered.

She was soon surrounded by people who wanted to know her name, offered her drinks and laughed at her jokes. As she basked in the attention, she was surprised to learn about the grand event that was to take place— the coronation of the "prom king" and "prom queen". She was flattered when she caught the eye of King Tom, who was obviously loved by the peasantry.

"Cardea, yes?" the king asked with a charming smile and offered her a pink flower.

Not a flower! She forced a smile and accepted the gift. "Yes, Your Highness."

He laughed. "Would you like to dance?"

Cardea readily accepted, and despite the disapproving looks cast by the queen, they danced into the night.

She had never known such happiness, and she now understood what Jupiter was talking about when he shared his tales of abducting mortals—what normally elicited eye-rolls from her.

"Cardea, I'm going to the restroom," King Tom said after a while. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

She nodded dreamily and let go of his neck.

Little did she know that the hand of chaos was about to strike.

The lights gave out and plunged the hall into darkness.

Amidst the ensuing pandemonium, a voice yelled out, "Someone's trapped in the elevator! The doors won't open!"

Cardea felt it in her whole being. This was her moment.

Gathering her skirt, she turned to the nearest mortal and roared, "Lead me to this elevator!"

To her bewilderment, she found that the offending doors had no hinges. Tartarus! However, she knew that no door could withstand her wrath.

Cardea, the goddess of door hinges, unleashed all of her power.

The world seemed to still, and a divine glow illuminated the place. Then the doors opened with a screech of metal.

Inside, an ashen-faced King Tom stared at her with his mouth open.

Having rescued the mortal king, Cardea knew that her name would go down in history. She would no longer be an unknown minor goddess.

The idea of abducting King Tom was just too old-fashioned, so she decided to woo him the traditional mortal way with the "dating" system. With that bubbly thought, she allowed Mercury to escort her back to Olympus—all the while cradling the pink flower, which she decided wasn't so bad, after all.

Cardea, whose name means "door pivot," was an actual Roman goddess. Floralia was also a real festival held in ancient Rome in honor of the goddess Flora.

Word Count: 971

Written for Prompt 3: a story under 1000 words of a god/goddess who decides to take a break by going to a mortal high school—only to discover it's prom day, and unexpectedly, a mortal wins their affections.