Author's Note: I've never know exactly what to say when writing these, but I've been posting on FictionPress for years (under the same name) and I think I've lurked on FanFiction for about as long. This is, however, my first time both writing and posting a fanfic of my own. After literally spending months in the Greek mythology section, which I couldn't have been happier to find, I figured I'd give it a try.
I hope you enjoy. :D
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. If they were, you would've heard of me. ;) That and I'd have no excuse for any inaccuracies.
Title credit goes to All Time Low-even if I didn't actually listen to the song until the chapter was nearly finished. In fact, most of my writing music was actually Viking metal, but I think I'm getting a little off-track.
There was nothing that the immortal ones delighted in more than an opportunity to come together for an evening of amusement, the latest gossip, and, it was all but implied, debauchery, which in turn was discussed at length during the next event. There was no better opportunity to partake in such festivities than a wedding, and this upcoming union would ensure that anyone of any importance would be in attendance. The betrothed alone were enough to arouse curiosity: the newly anointed Goddess of Love, whose supposed beauty paled all others' in comparison, and the husband-to-be, her physical counterpart, the lame, homely, and perpetually sooty god of the forge, who did no justice to his royal parentage.
It was a well-known fact that the king and queen of the sky were not what could be called the finest of parents, often too consumed by their own fighting to pay much mind to their children, though the prospective groom seemed to fare worse than his siblings. Some even whispered behind their hands that he had been literally thrown from the home of the gods as an infant by his own mother, that his unsightliness had offended her, therefore prompting his immediate removal. His landing in the mortal realm only added to the grievance, disfiguring his legs. Happily though, the situation at last took a turn for the better, for he was well-loved by those who fostered him, and highly praised for and encouraged to perfect his craft. Even still, he harbored a deep resentment of the woman who had both abandoned and disabled him, and the result of his combined talent and fury was a splendid throne of pure gold, anonymously presented as a gift to Hera.
Her vanity touched, she at once seated herself, only to be stuck fast. When all others failed, it quickly became apparent that only the maker of the cursed chair could free her of its hold. Such extraordinary craftsmanship could be attributed to one person alone—or more specifically a god who had made a name for himself as the master of metal-working. After he had been tracked down, he unsurprisingly refused to be of any assistance. The thought of moving the throne, his wife and all, to the furthest wing of his palace, where her screams would be muffled, had crossed Zeus' mind, and it was fortunate for her that he was simultaneously facing another dilemma.
While all of this was transpiring, a stunning new goddess stepped forth from the sea foam and took up residence upon Mount Olympus. So lovely was she that all who looked upon her desired her, not the least of which being a handful of his sons, and quite a bit of animosity emerged between them. He saw then the solution to both of his problems, thus offering her hand in marriage to the blacksmith god, on the condition that he release his own bride.
The offer, the hope that he might find love in the arms of the exquisite goddess who specialized in such matters of the heart, was too great for the dejected son of Zeus to refuse. And she agreed to have him! He thought he might burst from happiness.
And it was for that reason that dozens of well-wishers and skeptics alike now flocked to the highest peak to bear witness to their union.
The bride-to-be paced restlessly around the large and elegantly-furnished room she had been granted, occasionally catching her reflection. Though magnificent to behold, clad in a lavish red chiton so draped to accentuate her generous curves and full bust, with flowers woven through her elaborately braided blonde chignon and glittering with jewels from her ears to her fingers, the sight did little to soothe her. Unease had settled in behind her lavender eyes and crept across the rest of her face. Mortal women dreamed of their wedding day for all their short lives, but she felt as if she were tumbling into a nightmare. She had tact enough to pass herself off as the very embodiment of delight and gratitude—given a position in the court of the pantheon and a husband, all in such short time—when really she wanted nothing more than to bitterly weep or scream in outrage, at the unfairness of it all.
Well, really, the only drawback she could see was her forced matrimony.
Handsome men were in abundance in her new home, and she had so looked forward to sampling all they had to offer, but now, now she was bound to that…that creature. Even if he was not woefully unattractive, she would still have to account for the fact that he had spitefully restrained his own mother on her throne. What if she was next, but suppose, rather than a throne, it was his bed? Ordinarily, the thought might have made her purr with pleasure, but suddenly she realized, stopping in her tracks, that she was supposed to lay with that misshapen fellow, that, in due time, she would be expected to bear him children, and saw herself grow pale in the nearest circle of polished silver.
Could the Fates really be so cruel as to condemn her to birth ugly offspring, a further insult considering she was to be married to a man she would never love? She would rather be stripped of her immortality than suffer such torture. Just as she was feeling faint, her borrowed attendants, all wearing the purple that signified the service of the queen, knocked timidly upon the door and she bade them entrance; along with her title, she was promised a temple further down the mountaintop—that she most certainly would inhabit rather than cohabit with her husband in his—complete with aides of her own, who would dress in robes of pink, her personal preference.
"My lady," said one, giving a deep curtsy, "permit us to assist you with your veil. The ceremony shall begin at any moment and all are eager to behold you."
A second, less caught up in the merriment than the others, who gathered around her with the veil and pins, noticed the pallor of the bride's face, when previously she had been radiating joy. Now, even her eyes looked dull. "Perhaps you should be seated," she suggested, quickly breaking from the rest to draw up a chair, which the newest Olympian slid into with the only the slightest air of apprehension. "Are you well? Would you like some ambrosia to sustain you?"
"That will hardly be necessary," answered the goddess dismissively, certainly not about to reveal her dismay to the women who looked to Hera as mistress, especially when it was she who was organizing the event with a sort of wild zealousness that somehow had less to do with motherly affection for her son and more to do with the concern of additional furniture rebelling. "I am perfectly well, I simply think that the…excitement…of it all has gotten to my head."
She even mustered a smile, though it her performance was seriously lacking in authenticity. Nothing further was said on the matter and she allowed herself to be consumed by a flurry of hands and bodies moving about to secure the veil, all gushing about beautiful she looked. She could not even enjoy the attention she received, a testament to the unhappy state of her mind. The image of a squalling, twisted babe in her arms, mirroring his father, came unbidden to her, and, shuddering, she forced her thoughts instead to stray to the wine that would be served throughout the reception, the only way she might endure the evening and her wifely duty that would follow.
A wedding, really, was designed solely with women in mind, an opportunity for them to dress themselves in their very best garments and finest jewels, and present themselves to other women in an attempt to be heaped in praise. It was a chance for the hostess to exert her control over the household and freely drape every available service with flowers and ivy or candles, to cover the tables with elaborate centerpieces and rich linens, to yell her head off at her husband if he so much as nudged a petal out of place, a liberty that Hera took full advantage of as preparations were made, until Zeus at last, almost afraid to move about his own palace, threatened to "fetch the accursed chair".
Other than their standard squabbles, it was wine that made such events tolerable for the unfortunate males made to show up, lots and lots of wine. To the great relief of all the desperately bored men, not the least of which being the groom's brothers, Dionysus, the God of Wine, kept everyone's cups full throughout the nuptials, until the ceremony itself came to an end and they were therefore able to fend for themselves. With the floor of the ballroom crammed full of people, dancing to the music provided by Apollo and the Muses beneath the painted murals on the ceiling, two solitary figures lingered near the edge of the room, speaking among themselves.
"No sooner than I finished introducing myself did he take but a glance at me and bolt like one of Artemis' rabbits," Hermes was saying a little too loudly. He had not seen the bottom of his chalice the entirety of the evening and his appearance showed it. His youthful face was flush from over consumption, his golden brown curls all askew, similarly-hued eyes glassy.
"I am not surprised. A coward in life, a coward in death," sneered his companion, having been the one to end the life of the mortal that the messenger god spoke of. He had been a soldier who had tried to flee from the heat of battle, only to meet his end when Ares hurled his spear through his belly, which was much kinder than he deserved. "What does surprise me though is that you let a dead mortal run away from you. The deceased may soon be in need of a new escort."
"Of course I let him run!" Hermes declared gaily, oblivious to his elder brother's scathing remark. "I even was sporting enough to allow him a bit of a head start. You are only the executioner, I cannot imagine you have ever spoken with a soul, and therefore you cannot possibly know how resigned of their fate most are when I come to collect them. It is not every day I encounter one with a little life left in them, and this one was such fun. First, he ran for the woods as he had meant to do before a certain someone gored him…"
As he prattled on, Ares stopped hearing the words themselves, his dark gaze slipped from Hermes to sweep disdainfully over those gamboling about on the dance floor. Having grown thoroughly tired of mingling, what little of it he did, he longed to do nothing more than retreat to his bed chambers, though of course, he would need someone to accompany him. Lascivious like his father, he maintained a string of lovers, but found that one could never hold his attention for very long. And speaking of being easily distracted, just like that, he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and turned his head sharply to see it in full. In the midst of the room, stood what was easily the most ravishing woman he had ever beheld, twirling about almost vacantly, with the folds of her crimson gown billowing gently around her.
It was as if his every fantasy had be given life in this unknown goddess, all long graceful limbs, and shapely hips, and perfect, perky breasts, with an aura of sensuality hanging about her that turned the ichor running through his veins to fire. He knew then that he had to have her, he longed to capture her luscious lips, tear the dress from her body, and see the curves in full that the fabric teased at. Then he would run his hands over every inch of her creamy skin until she writhed and begged him to take her…and he would…and soon she would be screaming his name, the sound of it echoing all across Olympus.
But what was hers? War in the mortal realm had denied him the opportunity to initially make her acquaintance.
"Who is she?" he demanded of Hermes, who, as messenger, would be unable to avoid the juiciest gossip even if he wished to. As it was, he reveled in such things and possessed a wealth of information about almost each and every immortal, much to their chagrin.
"So then Hecate and I decided that we needed to change tactics…" Somewhere in the midst of the unheard recollection of the epic chase, the patroness of witches must have wanted to join in with the merriment of trying to catch a runaway soul. If the two chthonic deities had chosen to use the full extent of their powers, it would have been a solitary task, and the soul would have been shepherded off to the Underworld in little time at all, but what entertainment was there to be had in doing that? Hermes trailed off, blinking owlishly at his brother. "Who is Hecate?" he asked disbelievingly. "By the Fates, Ares, is your temple built beneath a rock, thus keeping you ignorant?"
"I am fully aware of who Hecate is," Ares bit out, brown eyes having turned a flashing gold, the color of his armor, as they always did when he was properly stimulated, angry or lustful or at war or any number of other things; they were forever changing. (The eyes of the gods were the best indicators of their emotions, the colors associated with their powers occurring naturally within them, sometimes a ring around their pupils, sometimes interwoven throughout the iris itself, which assumed the solid tone usually only when incensed, or using their abilities. For instance, Hermes' eyes would turn a shade similar to his brother's, since he was equipped with the gilded Caduceus, his staff, and Talaria, his winged sandals.) "I was referring to her," he snarled, jerking his head to indicate the goddess who had mesmerized him.
Though he could easily see whom it was that the war god was speaking of, Hermes made a show of flying a few inches into the air to have a better vantage point.
"Ah," he said slowly, making his earthbound sibling want to throttle him, "her." He looked on appreciatively, for a moment seeming to forget the whole purpose behind his ascension. "I swear, you know nothing about anything. That would be the bride herself," he concluded, landing with less than his usual grace. "Aphrodite…" Again turning back to focus on her, Ares tasted the name he had sought on his own lips; it was sweeter than any nectar, but left him thirsting for more. Bride of a different brother (he had honestly lost track of just how many he had) or not, his resolve to have her in his bed grew only more resolute. What a wondrous conquest she would make. "…the new goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation. Seeing as you asked, I suppose you mean to talk to her, maybe do a little bit of procreating yourself?"
Grinning mischievously, the messenger raised his eyebrows suggestively at his companion, or would have, had he not already vanished.
Aphrodite bumped into something that felt as cool and solid as one of the marble pillars that flanked the great hall, startling her into opening her eyes. She had always loved to dance, equating it much the same to lovemaking, the freedom to express oneself through the use of their body, but miraculously found herself without a partner. All of the men seemed either too timid or awed to approach her, unless otherwise forbidden by their wives, so, undaunted, she twirled about across the tiles by her lonesome. Her own spouse—she could not stomach the fact that she was now a married woman—had planted himself in a chair alongside the dance floor, apparently content just to watch her. He still seemed somewhat dazed by the events that had transpired. She had closed her eyes then to mask her grimace, hoping that maybe if she squeezed them shut hard enough, spun fast enough, the entire evening might disappear into oblivion, she would wake in a lover's arms and be reassured that it had only been a nightmare.
She was somewhat tipsy and sufficiently dizzy, but her senses came abruptly back to her when she studied what, or rather, who, she had run into—and was not disappointed.
He was a giant of a man, tall and well-muscled; the fact he was dressed as if he just stepped off a battlefield, still wearing his cuirass over his peplos and greaves upon his legs, only further added to his raw masculine appeal. His almost-black locks too were styled for war, worn long and swept back with a strip of leather at his neck, his face unshaven. His hooded eyes were turning the same color as his armor as he conspicuously admired her, a smirk touching his inviting-looking mouth. She stood a little straighter, pushed her breasts forward ever-so-slightly so that he could appreciate her more fully and looked coyly up at him from beneath her thick lashes, a smile gracing her own full lips. Where had this handsome warrior been when she first came to Mount Olympus and why was she meeting him only now?
"A bride of such astounding beauty neglected on her wedding night," he purred, voice deep and husky, all of his earlier surliness replaced with a readiness to flirt, "is truly a pity. Allow me to accompany you." He extended a massive hand to her as the song in the background came to an end and one with a livelier tempo started up.
"It would be my absolute pleasure to keep your company, my lord." Everything about his presence delighted her, not the least of which being the fact that he had remained fully composed, even cocky, when he addressed her; most simply fell to bits, rendered incoherent. (She had even needed to coach one particularly tongue-tied suitor through his own proposition, only to turn him away immediately after.)
She placed her fingers into his rough palm and he captured them, pulling her unexpectedly to him. She had scarcely felt the cold metal he wore before he extended his arm, twirling her away, with the skirts of her dress flying out around her. Laughing gaily, she returned to him, only for her breathing to hitch: this time she was pressed directly into his chest, felt his scorching flesh and solid muscles beneath his tunic; he had willed his protective covering away. The lust he felt for her was palpable, she could smell it as clearly as the wine on his breath, as well as a hint of perspiration, earth, and something sharp and metallic. The hand that was not grasping hers wrapped possessively around her waist and she linked her arm around his neck and they glided smoothly across the marble, every now and again, him making a show of spinning her.
"Have you a name, most mysterious one?" she inquired as they made a full turn across the ballroom, which up until then had been punctuated only with looks of longing as they no doubt tried to envision the other without the restraints of their garbs, and her dance partner surreptitiously guiding her out of the blacksmith god's sights. In a sea of people, they were suddenly very much alone with each other; she was intrigued rather than apprehensive. "I have regrettably not seen you before on Olympus."
"I have many," he responded. "I am known as the God of War, the Destroyer of Cities, the Lord of the Dance," he added, again prompting the melodious laugh from her as he exaggeratedly dipped her backwards and very slowly brought her back to an upright position, holding her so close that their lips were but inches apart, her soft breasts pressed against his hard torso. He inclined his head, though as much as he would have liked to kiss her, he instead brushed her ear with his mouth, and whispered, "But you, my sweet goddess, may call me 'Ares'. And you should know that you soon will be screaming it in ecstasy."
For a moment, when her eyes widened at the unexpectedness of his declaration, he feared that he had been far too bold, that he had all but ruined his chances of stealing her away for the rest of the night, and braced himself for the impending slap. (In all likelihood, the blow would hurt the affronted goddess far more than he, yet she would feel as if her pride had been rightly avenged). Since he spent so much time in war, where profanities and other coarse language flowed freely, along with blood, he sometimes forgot that he needed to censor himself in polite company, especially female, yet with her, he had no such filter, his brain serving only as an interpreter to the demands of his loins. He was not as in control of the situation as he presented himself to be, for he had succumbed almost completely to her spell.
And it seemed she was not wholly immune to his charms, or lack thereof, either, for seconds after she recovered from the shock of his crass words, her lavender eyes were taking on the aroused glow of the pink that rimmed the irises, mirroring everything that he himself felt. Clearly she too had but one thing in mind tonight, and it had nothing to do with the wedding. In fact, she was pressed so closely to him, clinging like ivy, that one would never suspect that, as of a couple hours ago, she was a married woman. (Then again, it was to his lame brother that she was wedded; he could hardly be expected to satisfy a woman's needs. For a war god, he considered himself a scholar in the acts of intimacy.)
Encouraged, he impulsively gave her lobe the smallest of nibbles before withdrawing and hating himself for having to do so. He wished to nuzzle into, press his lips up the length of, her white swan neck, and breathe in the smell of her perfume, roses, vanilla, and the faintest hint of the sea, until he was drunk off it. She would taste even better than she smelled…and it was not just her warm, wet mouth with its pouting pink lips that he was fantasizing about.
Aphrodite could positively hear the thoughts he was entertaining, and she would have liked nothing better than to feel his tongue and calloused fingers exploring every inch of her. Her own lustful impulses were highly improper, almost as if she was making a mockery of the vows she had exchanged not all that long ago that very evening, but it was simply her nature. True, she had been granted her powers to bring love to mortals and immortals alike so that they could spend a lifetime in wedded bliss—and she delighted in it—yet marriage itself was not for her, she could not be confined to one man, especially one whom she did not feel the slightest inkling of passion towards. After seeing the way his eyes lit up when she consented to marry him, having been discarded by his own mother if the rumors were true and desperate for affection, she pitied her new husband—Hephaestus—but passion was her very essence, she needed it to sustain her.
Where there was none, she could not exist; in the few days she had been betrothed, she felt positively suffocated by the lack of it. It was like she was drowning and the harder she tried to break the surface, the heavier the weight of it became, pulling her further downward, crushing her. She was not going to spend her eternal existence as a ghost of herself.
Never before had she felt more alive than now, on the dance floor—having not once broken step as they flirted—with a most magnificent partner, who was, literally, a breath of fresh air. A night spent with him would be her wedding gift to herself. Unwilling to appear too eager however, she tossed her head with feigned indignation, yet contradictorily trailed her fingernails lightly up and down the nape of his neck, leaving a path of sparks against his flesh in their wake.
"Well, Ares, God of War, you are nothing if not self-assured," she proclaimed, doing her very best to sound offended. Such talk though, uncouth as it might have been, did nothing but thrill her, and she was anxious to find out how he planned to go about making her cry out so rapturously; surely there was a good reason behind his confidence. Casting a swift but obvious glance downwards, inspecting him, she added, having to bite back a pleased smile, "Here I thought it was only a dance you sought, when in truth you mean to woo me. I must inform you that I am a married woman."
Her act was not fooling him in the slightest and he gave a throaty chuckle in response. "And yet you remain in my arms when a woman truly concerned with honoring her vows would have struck my face and turned on her heel. What say you to that, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love?" he teased. When she tilted her head slightly in bemusement at him knowing her name, he offered as a means of an explanation, "Tales of your splendor have reached even the battlefields, rallying the spirits of the men." He was improvising, having only learned her name moments ago from Hermes, but she visibly reveled in his compliments, which he in turn liked paying her.
Whosoever said he had no social tact had clearly never watched him seduce a woman—though of course a critic would be quick to turn this around and claim that since all he concerned himself with outside of combat was keeping female company, he naturally would be good at procuring it. He had long ago stopped trying to please the others, most of whom tended to behave as if he were a frothing dog that could be provoked into biting at any given moment.
Aphrodite pretended to mull over his words. The hand that had been at his neck moved to run the length of his strong jaw. She loved the feel of him, so solid, so powerfully built, the quintessential male.
"I would say that you boast far too fine a face to be marred by a blow of my hand…" The many rings that adorned it, easily enough to leave a mark if they made contact, caught the candlelight and sparkled. "I would also predict that I would not be the first to appropriately discipline you, for you speak as though this is a common practice of yours, luring wives from their husbands," she mock-scolded. As attractive as he was, it would be almost insulting to think that there had not been others before her, as undoubtedly there would be after (a pattern she herself would follow), but for tonight, the God of War belonged to her, an appetizer, albeit an especially luscious one, to start the feast of men—and women if the whim so struck her—she would consume.
Author's Note, Pt. II: For easier reading, I decided to split the original chapter in half. (The next one is going to be a lot more fun). Right now, I don't have that much of a plot in mind, so it's currently just my retelling.
I'd love to hear what you think.
-Impersonating Sugar