Dedication: for Inferno of the Damned, who has waited patiently and reviewed many of my new stories. (Did you guys know I have thirteen now? Thirteen!)


In Between Our Lies

54. Of Lightning and Thunder

They say the lovers of the gods in their all different aspects – Roman; Greek; Egyptian (to name a few) – all have different personalities, split as the gods. They say that you can tell how different they are in comparison – strong spirit; calm persona; endearing aptitude – and that you can match them with the aspect, if you are smart enough. They say that the gods can split themselves to be with each lover at once.

They say . . . They say . . . They say . . .

How reliable are these sources, do you wonder? Are the gods really different people, mushed as one?

. . .

[Thunder]

Thunder is just for show – a mere stage prop, if you will. It was meant to scare, but no harm is done in sound waves. That's what thunder is: sound; a simple show of bravado, which everyone believes. Thunder was merely a shadow of a greater danger: the lightning itself.

So, really, he was thunder. His power did not match his Roman aspect, or his others. It was simply a show. False; fabricated; deceitful. He did not wish to seek revenge in those who angered him; did not wish to kill the ones whom his lovers ran to.

In truth, he was a compassionate person. Many a lover did Zeus have, but none that he did not love fully. (Only his lovers got to see that compassion, though.)

. . .

"I love you," he whispers into her ear late into the night. Drunken though she is, Grace hears him. (He calls her Grace because her first name does not suit her. It does not make her shine the way "Grace", her last name, does.)

"I love you, too," she says – though she's so drunk it sounds like, "I vuv yu, oo." But then she gets a hold on the bottle, takes a swig, and passes out once more.

As a god, he is unable to actually get drunk on mortal substances. He settles with staying clear-headed when he is with his lovers, anyways. (Makes things easier if he just notices and observes.)

And so as dawn approaches, he packs his things – silent as a ghost; erasing all traces of his memory from the too-small apartment.

(He leaves as soon as an inch of the sun's rays slip through the colorful sky.)

. . .

[Lightning]

Lightning is deadly; uncontrollable; unsound. All of the power in his hands – corrupted; tainted with blood and gore. [How? How did I become this . . . monster?] He does not deny that the authority was pleasing. In truth, it was nice to be the boss instead of the bossed.

He had a conquest to achieve – a mission to become the most powerful, though there was no competition. He had done everything – everything – in his power to make sure that he was on top. The one to be feared yet admired. Envied, but respected.

Somehow he lost himself along the way.

. . .

"Hello, Jupiter," her voice is seductive; her curves captured and held within a ravishing, dark blue dress. It takes all his willpower not to run to her and smash his lips on her own. (But he knows how to refrain – he is not Roman for nothing, after all. He knows there is a time and place for such things.)

"I see that you bought a new dress," he says, even though he doesn't know at all. (Rome's strategy was to attack, not to find diplomatic solutions.)

"Yes, just for you," she breathes against his cheek, kissing him on his lips.

He finds himself saying, "Good."

.

.

.

When he wakes the next morning, she is already up. (Some part of him – somewhere deep, deep inside – thinks of that other night, in another form, in another day, but he banishes the thought before it can affect him.)

"I see that you are awake." She turns to him, almost startled. Her arms are crossed, as if she is holding herself together. (Had he been in a different form, perhaps he would have noticed the signs. How she was slowly tumbling into madness.)

"Of course," she chuckles softly. "How could I sleep with a god next to me?"

"You didn't seem so troubled last time."

She stares at him, a look of confusion crossing her eyes for merely a second. "I did not know before, did I?" She crosses over the bed to kiss him. "I'm glad you came, though. Thalia was wondering . . . but you will not stay?"

He does not answer. He does not need to.

.

.

.

This is what causes her to break. The thought of losing what was most precious to her: he. How could she raise a child with no father? How could she balance her career with no rock grounding her to the world? How could she stay sane with no one to be sane for?

"Make me immortal! You love me, you say, but do you? Do you love me enough to make me immortal – forever beautiful, forever young? Forever a challenge to your so-called wife?" (She screams this often now – or pleads, more likely – whenever she wanders again. No longer charming, witty – but crazed, distressed. Lost.)

"Do not insult Juno," he snarls, not harsh but not kind either, "you do not know what she could do . . ."

"I don't need to, Jupiter. Do you love me?"

"Yes, you know I—," he starts, and she stops him.

"No more lies. If you loved me than you would grant my wish, would you not?"

"Enough! Do not speak of this anymore, mortal!" he screams, commanding. She does not yield – no, once a fighter, always a fighter.

"No! No, Jupiter, I'm not done—"

He slaps her. (This is not how he wanted to become.)

. . .

I believe it is safe to say that the gods,

Split personalities they may be,

Are always going to be

One.


Sorry for not updating in forever, my faithful readers. Does this appease? 'Cause right now I'm thinking this is my favorite for the gods.