Author's Note: Here it is, the third chapter, pretty much up a month to the day after I initially published this. I'll admit, I won't always be so reliable with my updates, and I've left my readers on FictionPress waiting for months at a time (I don't know how they put up with me)...and I may or may not have thought up something else...or two. (Because jumping between three stories isn't enough! :D)
This chapter was brought to you by more obscure bands, and is much more Aphrodite-centric...and, dare I say it, features some very slight Hephrodite. O.O (Has that couple name been used yet, because if it hasn't, I'm definitely claiming it!)
Aphrodite's heart beat out a frantic tattoo against her breast and echoed cavernously in her ears, but still, she kept her eyes tightly closed. Never had she expected to surrender herself so fully to her husband, and yet, here she was, her small, delicate fingers laced through his meaty, calloused ones, clinging to him as though her very life depended upon it, as he guided her ever closer with a tenderness she had not thought him capable of. His movements were ungainly as he charted the unfamiliar territory, though she found a certain reassurance in the solidness of him. A shiver of anticipation rippled through her body, and she could feel him smile warmly at her.
"Open your eyes," Hephaestus encouraged, coming to a halt.
Blinking against the sudden onset of light, the love goddess released the breath she had not been aware she was holding. They stood at the edge of a beach, bathed in the glow of the rising sun. Under a swirling sky of rose gold, waves of blush and mauve gamboled against fine, powdery sand that was at present a purplish-taupe in hue. A sight similar to this had been the first thing she had ever known when she assumed solid form and stepped forth from the ocean, only a small assembly of mortals and immortals alike had gathered to greet her.
"Cyprus," she breathed in a voice no louder than the gentle sea breeze ruffling the skirts of her light dress and through her loose, flowing locks (a chignon, to her, felt like the mark of a wife, and she was still unwilling to accept her role as one). To say the least, he was not the brutish god she had initially envisioned him to be. Understanding that it was out of obligation, rather than affection, that she wedded him, he had not pressured her in the slightest to actually consummate their union, to her enormous relief, saying that he would prefer if such an intimate exchange occurred when she believed the time was right—and now this. She was nothing short of astounded that he had brought her from Olympus to her beloved island for their honeymoon and touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
"Does this please you?" the Blacksmith God asked, a sort of boyish eagerness creeping into his voice. His dark eyes, identical to his mother's and brother's, except much wider set and flecked with a fiery orange, were wide and anxious as he awaited her reply.
"Very much so," responded Aphrodite, who was positively beaming at the unexpected return to her motherland. She all but pranced forward to place a ginger kiss upon his bearded cheek. The very moment her lips grazed his skin, she became aware of her actions, swiftly withdrew, and stepped back a pace, shoulders hunched and fidgeting uncharacteristically. She could not help but wonder if letting herself get swept away in her joy had been wise, if her demonstration had been more cruel than anything else— it broke her heart as she watched him touch the spot with his fingertips, the faintest of dazed smiles touching his mouth—like she was giving him false hope that something might ever spark between them.
There was a better chance of the Phlegethon, the river of fire in the Underworld, freezing over than her ever being remotely attracted to him. Besides, he was still very much a stranger to her, albeit one to whom she was now wedded, and she was helplessly uncertain how to even behave around him, and, why not admit it, still more than a little apprehensive.
Retrospectively, this would make her more sympathetic to her often-flustered pursuers, who would likely be undaunted by her marital status. Her spouse was as much in awe of her as any of the men who had attempted to approach her upon her arrival at the home of the gods, but rather than being flattered in this situation, she was made slightly uncomfortable. He was falling all over himself in an effort to please her, but she could not overlook how he had acquired her as his bride. Knowing well what he was capable of, she was not wholly unconvinced that she would not wind up trapped upon a throne like his mother.
Seeing as the newlyweds began their marriage already rightfully intimidated by their partners, their efforts to get better acquainted initially failed, marked by long pauses and awkward glances out at the shimmering expanse of now-cerulean water as they strolled along the shore (a suggestion that she had tentatively blurted to cut through the uncertainty of what to do now that they were alone with each other, forgetting momentarily that his legs were not strong enough for an endeavor across the ever-shifting sands). Nevertheless, her new husband sportingly accompanied her, except he was a man of so few words, it was almost as if she was taking a walk by her lonesome; it was impossible to determine if there was anything he wished to say, for he kept it to himself, lacking the self-assuredness that made Ares so appealing to her.
Ever since she had noticed the physical similarities Hephaestus shared with his elder brother—the same eyes framed by long black lashes and heavy eyebrows, the imposing height and powerful frames (though the younger's legs did not look particularly robust bound in their golden braces, he more than accommodated for it with a sturdily-muscled torso and arms)—she had been unable to keep from entertaining thoughts of the self-proclaimed Destroyer of Cities, who, despite his bloody line of work, could navigate a dance floor with the greatest of ease and an almost outrageous grace, who could ignite a fire within her with but a touch.
Now there was a god among the divine ones…why could it not have been he who freed Hera from her confines?
Were it they who were adjoined, there would undoubtedly be no walks along the seaside as Eos, bringer of dawn, drove her chariot across an awakening sky, a fact she would be more than willing to overlook, because she would be free to indulge herself in his intoxicating kisses, have that magnificent cock at her service, whenever she wished. With Ares as her husband, there would be passion enough to sate even her craving for it…the very idea of such a union left her tingly all over…War and Love, two powerful, unyielding forces in the world, sharing the same bed. The Fates, however, were not so kind, seeing her bound instead to a spouse with whom she would never willingly lay, let alone, it seemed, be able to converse with.
Finally, in near desperation to break the painful silence that followed another botched attempt (on her part because he had yet to contribute) at finding common ground, because transporting herself back to her temple to escape him seemed inexcusably rude, she made one last effort.
"The ocean is lovely, is it not?" she inquired, lacing her fingers behind her back. "Even when I was on Olympus, I could hear it calling to me, and I wanted nothing more than to go and bathe in its waters." Her brow creased faintly: if she was trying to discourage intimacy, perhaps it was improper to speak of activities that did not require clothing. "I am as much a part of it as it is of me," she amended hurriedly, anxious to give him as little an opportunity to envision her unclothed as possible.
"It is indeed beautiful," he agreed with an animation that had been unseen in the courts, overlooking all perverse implications of his wife frolicking about in the nude and surprising her yet again. What a truly unusual god. "While I am capable of manipulating fire and metal, I too have always been drawn to the sea, though I suppose this could be because I was raised at its shore in my youth. As a babe, I was taken in by the Nereids Thetis and Eurynome, and it was they who…" He trailed off, looking slightly embarrassed by his sudden excessive chatter; he had been inducted into the court of the most powerful of the Olympians, now numbering twelve, but had yet to see himself as their equal, particularly regarding the love goddess, who was, in every way, his antithesis.
Pleased and immensely relieved that she had at last managed to coax more than a syllable or two from him, Aphrodite gave him a bright, reassuring smile and bade him continue, asking him about his time spent with his fosters, suddenly genuinely interested in his reply. (For some time, she had been deprived of good conversation, unable to find it in the company of her fellow Olympians, who were comprised of females who begrudged her and made no effort to better acquaint themselves, or males who seemed to think her incapable of intellectual activity, that she was exclusively a…physical…being). Initially he seemed wary of prattling away to his dauntingly attractive wife, but when he sensed the sincerity in her inquisitiveness, he began to more readily open himself to her.
In turn, he dutifully inquired as to her own upbringing, though her childhood was an unconventional one, seeing as she came into being already in this nubile form—and equipped with an intrinsic knowledge of carnal pleasure and how to go about attaining it. She coyly explained that her earliest days were spent strolling along the beach or admiring the pretty things that surrounded her, though wisely omitted that most of the 'pretty things' that caught her eye were the inhabitants of her sacred island, or the fellow immortals who resided in the ocean.
Briefly she recalled one such lover, her very first to be precise. Nerites was the solitary son amid fifty sisters—two of whom were incidentally her spouse's fosters—from the fruitful union of the wizened Nereus and his wife Doris, and so heavily indulged was he that he rarely strayed very far from the depths. A hidden treasure of the sea so to speak: with eyes of turquoise and flaxen hair, he could be distinguished easily as one of the handsomest men, or gods, of his time, making her disinclined to share him, though this was ultimately to his detriment. When the time drew nigh for her to take her place among the other deities on the highest peak, he outright refused to accompany her on her journey, much preferring to remain amongst his familiars. Disappointed but not unreasonable, she proposed a compromise, wanting always to keep him by her side: he would be gifted with a most extraordinary pair of wings so that he could divide his time between herself and his loved ones accordingly, visit her in the skies and still return to comforts of home.
The spoiled young god remained unyielding; if she sought his company so greatly, she could travel to visit him, he had rationalized, the fact that she might be restricted by her duties (as the more influential immortals tended to be) lost on him. And besides, he explained as if speaking to someone exceptionally dense, wings would be utterly impractical for a sea-dweller: they would only become sodden and therefore cumbersome.
Back and forth they went, until at last, in a shamefully juvenile fit of rage, and determined that no woman but she would ever again know his embrace, she turned him into a shellfish, saying that he could spend the remainder of his days at the bottom of the ocean for all she cared. Her little tantrum, she reflected, might not bode well with Hephaestus' caregivers, and could make for a tense reunion on the off-chance he would ever decide that the trio needed to become acquainted, though in her defense, she meant to lift the curse, only she had concealed him far too well.
And speaking of Hephaestus…he was now fully engaging her as they ambled along; the protective walls both had set in place to initially shield themselves from the unknown entity to whom they were constrained had begun to crumble. Their mutual appreciation of the sparkling waters had since led to the discovery of similar childhood origins at the edge of Poseidon's realm, which in turn had been largely influenced by a shared eye for aesthetics.
Aphrodite watched her husband evolve from the ostracized god who had callously imprisoned his birth mother on the golden throne (a fitting treatment, she decided, now that she had met the rather unpleasant woman), into a slightly bashful individual with an affinity for fashioning beautiful objects with his hands and a seemingly gentle, kindly disposition. He, in turn, was coming to realize that the goddess who had effortlessly captured the hearts of all their immortal neighbors was nowhere near as haughty nor aloof as he envisioned, finding her instead to be astonishingly warm and personable. The queen of the skies had admittedly soured him to all of those who occupied the 'upper realm', and his personal biases had subconsciously bled onto his wife. Calling the Lady Hera 'mother' was unthinkable, especially after others stepped into her role, loving him far better than she ever would or even could: his only full-blooded brother, who wore on his legs a soldier's greaves as opposed to braces, suggesting that he had remained in her care on the mountaintop, seemed to harbor a very deep dislike of her himself.
Motivated by a warped sense of allegiance, however, Ares had turned up unannounced at his forge, demanding the same thing all of his other 'visitors' had more diplomatically hinted at, freeing their queen from the confines of his specially-made golden throne. Generally the master smith was a nonviolent fellow, but the near-constant stream of harassment over a most unworthy cause had pushed him to his very limit, and he summoned a storm of metal shards to send his hostile sibling retreating back in the direction from whence he came.
But for the time-being, he would no further dwell upon that particularly distasteful branch of his family tree, not when he had such delightful company…
They talked and walked for a good while longer, until the love goddess realized that she had been quite negligent of her husband's condition, and was ashamed of her thoughtlessness, especially since he had made every effort to be attentive and indulgent. Though he tried valiantly to pretend that the pain in his legs was no bother at all, the tiniest of audible winces betrayed him.
"Truly I am fine," he insisted when she turned to him in concern, about to offer herself as a sort of divine crutch. "Do not trouble yourself over such an inconsequential things as..." He hesitated for a fraction of a second, attempting to think of an excuse that would not make him sound as if he were a weakling, which in turn would make him feel all the more undeserving of her. "…a small pinch from one of these infernal braces." He stooped hurriedly in the act of tinkering with his invention, not fooling her in the slightest; even with her untrained eye, she could see the device had been painstakingly molded for a perfect fit. She could sense the actual reasoning behind his reluctance to leave her side.
"My lord," she prompted gently, mindful not to use any terms of endearment lest she mislead him, "if you are somehow worried that your departure will offend me, I assure you that it is not so. Please, there are several temples built along these shores in my honor, return to the nearest one to rest yourself for a short while." She pointed vaguely in its general direction. Then, with her most reassuring smile, she promised, "I will be able to amuse myself for the time being."
"If you are certain," her husband conceded albeit reluctantly. "I would very much like to continue our dialogue over dinner, if you would do the honor of joining me." Earlier today, she would have made every possible excuse to maintain as much distance between them as she could, but she heard herself consent to his invitation without a moment's hesitation, more at ease in his presence. For a moment, he seemed to be at war with himself, but then he lifted her hand carefully, as if she were fragile as fine crystal, to his lips and placed a light kiss upon her knuckles. "My lady," he said as a means of dismissing himself, before vanishing in a dark cloud of smoke.
At the unexpected contact, every muscle in Aphrodite's body had gone as rigid as a marble sculpture in her likeness. She was grateful that her adverse reaction appeared to have gone unnoticed and released a slow breath as a means of forcing herself to relax; these sorts of interactions would definitely take some time to grow accustomed to. Her encounter with Ares had been so effortless, within minutes of meeting him, she felt as if they had known each other for eons. As Hephaestus kissed her hand, she was, for the briefest of instants, thrown back to the night before, when his brother had done precisely the same thing as he took his leave—she would have sworn that the eyes that held hers had taken on a molten-gold hue.
Oh, sweet Mother Gaia. Just the thought of those eyes, that absolutely feral expression on his face as he admitted his true intentions to her, turned her from stone to a raging wildfire, hot and ravenous. Shamelessly she undid the clasps holding her dress in place and shrugged it to the ground—her undergarments slid down to rest atop the fabric bunched at her feet, before she neatly stepped out of them. Briefly she entertained the outlandish fantasy of teleporting herself in all of her unclothed glory up to Ares' temple and lying in wait for him, before dismissing the idea as utter folly. She had not the foggiest clue of where or how he spent his days, and furthermore suspected that the others, especially if they thrived on gossip as much as he claimed they did when he escorted her, would somehow become aware of such an immodest deed and talk of it would soon run rampant across the courts.
A long swim she had had in mind since her arrival at the beach, and it was now what she would have to do in order to douse the heat that coursed within her.
The sea breeze came to her and caressed her bared white skin like an experienced lover, cooling her burning flesh and hardening her nipples into rosy peaks. Closing her eyes and spreading her arms wide, tipping her head back in ecstasy, she gave herself over to it. She inhaled deeply as the lapping waves and wind alike whispered sweet nothings to her, before her eyelids flew open and she rushed with all the grace of a woodland nymph down the beach to dive into the crystalline waters…
…Dripping wet and shining with jubilation at getting to relive her alleged youth, the still stark-naked Goddess of Love paddled back into the shallows and then proceeded to meander up the shore to gather her discarded clothing. How quickly time had passed! The sky was darkening as Helios' chariot ride drew near to completion, and the sand was bathed in a faint, dusky glow; she had given her word that she would reunite with Hephaestus in time for dinner and had to hurry if she was to meet her deadline. First and foremost, she needed to freshen up, and, true to her prior claims that she would never reside under the same roof as her spouse, she experimentally called her attendants for the first time to her aid before promptly materializing at a temple that could not have been further from the one he had retired to unless she travelled to a different island entirely.
Upon her arrival, she was greeted in the entranceway by a trio of minor goddesses, collectively called the Kharites, different in looks: one a brunette, one with hair of gold, and the third with red tresses, but all lovely in face, donning garbs of pale pink that spread wide as they curtsied to her and crowns of myrtle to signify their service.
Formerly among those who waited on Hera, and therefore more than likely forewarned about their new mistress' disregard for modesty, they did not so much as flinch at the sight of her nudity, one taking the bundle of clothes she held at her breast, while the others helped her into a sumptuous robe. Without another word, they gestured her down a brightly-lit hallway that was strewn with rose petals to the bathroom, where more petals still floated atop the glassy surface of the sunken tub, the fragrance of various perfumes lingering in the air. The marble walls (and in one case, a ceiling-to-floor length of polished silver, which duplicated the scene, including the statuesque goddess shedding her robe to descend the steps into the bath) and quartz-imbued floor reflected the soft light cast by dozens of candles and the room glowed invitingly. Flowering quince and myrtle spilled forth from crystal vases on the countertops or tall tapered planters, added a burst of color to the otherwise monotonous white.
Aphrodite leaned her head back against the cool edge of the tub as the warm water enveloped her body, breathing in the scent of laurel and lavender, and allowed herself to be thoroughly pampered by her newly-instated aides. Whatever impressions they might have had of her, they tended to her regardless, rapidly but thoroughly, providing pleasant enough company. By no means did she think herself entitled to such a life of privilege, but it most certainly enjoyable—and, now that she had experienced that lavish lifestyle, she found it difficult to imagine having once been able to function at all without it.
In no time at all, she was blissfully clean, her hair brushed until it shone like the jewels that adorned her, dressed in a flowing gown of blush, and returning to the temple that had been lent to the blacksmith god to recuperate from their lengthy walk. He might have expected her back a little sooner—by now, the sun had dipped below the horizon—but he had failed to specify when he wished to dine with her and surely would appreciate the extra time taken to make her look her best…
…assuming that she was able to locate him.
His aura lingered faintly throughout the structure, but she could find no tangible evidence of his presence. The sconces mounted on the walls lit themselves as she wandered, puzzled, from room to room, calling out his name, only to be answered by her own voice echoing back. They were erratic, those sons of Hera, never where they were supposed to be when she came looking for them. Well, she reflected, one place she knew he would not be was solidifying behind her to enfold her in an amorous embrace like his elder brother had—though their union gave him every right to claim her whenever he so wished, he appeared much too timid to dare attempt something so brazen.
She added discourteous to the list of his recently discovered traits; it had been he who wished to spend more time with her, and she was quite offended by him thoughtlessly brushing her off. He was certainly not doing her any favors, there were men enough on the island who would be more than willing to keep company with her, and so thinking, she marched out of the temple, ready to transport to the nearest town, only to stop short when she saw torches flickering on the beach, forming a semicircle around a cloth-covered table. Somewhat shamefacedly, she recanted her prior statement and drew near.
Up close, she could see that the table had been exquisitely laid with a crisp ivory drape, a handful of candles, and a large floral centerpiece that was coupled with a few smaller ones. Surely this grandiose gesture could not have been learned by observing his birth parents' interactions, which were, she had heard, characterized by long periods of frosty indifference or explosive fights. Under the torchlight, she saw Hephaestus beam at the sight of her and rise quickly from him his seat out of respect, before moving to pull hers out for her. She smiled shyly (some of her pursuers had been far more flamboyant in their efforts to woo her, but this one seemed surprisingly sincere, again leaving her unsure of how to act) and murmured a word of thanks as he slid the chair back up to the table and commented earnestly on how beautiful she looked.
"I cannot believe that you have gone to so much trouble on my behalf," she stated. It was not actually an obligatory remark; she knew he was lame and the simplest of tasks would have been more difficult for him to accomplish. She felt that she should have been more liberal with her praise of his arrangement, but to do so would only give him unnecessary encouragement and she could not, in good conscience, treat such a kind and thoughtful man in such a callous way.
"It was of no trouble whatsoever," he assured her. "You are my wife and it is therefore my privilege to ensure your happiness." He, on the other hand, seemed slightly glum, she noted, as if he felt his improvisation had not been enough for her, and why would it have been? This was a goddess who was accustomed to having lovers offer to singlehandedly rearrange the heavens for her.
Seeing him so dejected saddened her: if there was anyone deserving of love, it was he, but because he was wedded to her (and using her magic to help him find love would put her in the awkward position of having to turn a blind eye), he would never know it. How cruelly ironic that the Goddess of Love herself was incapable of showing him tenderness—there was no denying that she was touched by thoughtful demonstrations, which certainly made him far more endearing, though they did nothing to improve upon his countenance or ungainliness; beauty fell into her domain as well, she needed it as much as passion…
Why could I not give him affection he needs, she thought vehemently, after all, it is I who presides over all matters of the heart. I will never see him as a wife views her husband, but there is nothing stopping us from becoming friends. Olympus can be a lonely place, especially for two ostracized deities such as ourselves, and I think we both could use one.
"In that case, I would like to express my sincerest gratitude," said Aphrodite, laying her hand briefly over his, leaving it there only long enough to be deemed a friendly gesture. "This has been an absolutely perfect day. Now," she continued hastily as a means of distraction, not yet sure of how to conduct herself in a platonic relationship with a male, "as we were discussing earlier today, where did you say it was from that you drew inspiration for your craft?"
His eyes turned briefly to fire, and at his unspoken command, several humanoid figures who looked as though they had been cast of pure gold appeared to wait on them as he began to speak, his disappointment slowly subsiding, pouring wine and serving them food: bread and olive oil, dried figs, vegetables and cheese, varying meats and fish, and finally fresh fruit. As gods, they had no need to consume mortal fares, only nectar and ambrosia was necessary to sustain them, but nevertheless, most would partake in feasting, not about to let an additional opportunity to indulge themselves pass by. Everything was delicious and they soon slipped back into an easy dialogue…
What looked like a shooting star fell from the indigo sky and the messenger god came to a halt, hovering in midair at the tableside. The wings of his sandals beat vigorously, keeping him aloft.
"My lord, my lady," he greeted, giving a small bow and sweeping his wide-brimmed travelling hat from his head to hold over his chest, "pardon my untimely intrusion, but I come…" He stopped short, mouth hanging open somewhat vacantly, suddenly left incapable of recalling his duties, even after doing the same task innumerous times throughout his life, as he caught a glimpse of the cleavage that spilled forth from the plunging neckline of his sister-in-law's dress.
A slave to her baser instincts, she gave her bosom a surreptitious push forward, smiling mischievously up at him. "I think perhaps you have come bearing a message?" she suggested, tipping her head coquettishly, inwardly reveling at the attention she received. Subtlety here was key in expressing her interest while, at the same time, not offending Hephaestus. Their youthful visitor she recognized as another child of mighty Zeus, recalling him among those who had vied for hand…and more than a few flirtatious glances had passed between the two since then…had it really only been a few days since she had arrived on Olympus, incited the fighting that ultimately led to her being married off?
Hermes' pride swelled at the thought of being recognized as the silver-tongued, light-fingered messenger by the beauteous Aphrodite, only to belatedly realize that he wore his leather satchel at his side, a sure indicator of his position. "I have," he announced without missing a beat, returning his hat to its place atop his golden brown curls as he shook himself from his trance and rifting about in the sack for a scroll, which, upon procuring, he handed off to its recipient—all the while, remarkably, without breaking eye contact with the spectacularly perky pair of creamy breasts. "I come on the behalf of one of our fellows who expressed a dire need for weaponry," he explained unnecessarily as his brother unfurled it, more for the sake of putting on a show for the voluptuous blonde spectator. "Enclosed is a list of his requests."
Perhaps 'demands' would be a more appropriate term, seeing as he was sent by a god who made a habit of never asking anything of anyone…
Last night at the wedding, shortly after Ares left him mid-sentence to pursue the bride, Hermes had gone to seek someone who would actually listen to his stories—Apollo, with whom he had become friends after the incident involving a certain herd of sacred cows, was providing the entertainment, but Dionysus had enough social tact to at the very least appear interested in what his brother had to say. En route, he had locked eyes with a goddess who was pretty enough to hold his attention, but of such minor importance that he could not remember her name, not even if he was threatened with having his immortal life-thread cut. They retreated to his chambers and fell upon each other, no sooner was she splayed naked across his bed, his skillful fingers bringing her to the brink of release—the sons of Zeus were many things, but inattentive lovers was not one of them—were they interrupted as the door shook beneath knocking administered with the force of a battering ram.
When the messenger answered the door, a blanket wrapped haphazardly around his waist, he was greeted by the sight of the livid-looking war god, who then had the nerve to entreat his services after shattering the intimate moment.
"While nothing in life gives me more pleasure than running to the four corners of the earth at your or our fellows' bequest, this could not wait until a time when I did not have a woman in my bed, nor perhaps was clothed?" he had retorted, gesturing to himself and then throwing a pointed glace backward at his partner.
Though he looked as if he were past the point of being able to see reason, the war god appeared to consider this. "Leave us," he finally barked at the demigoddess, who did not need to be twice told. Rolling swiftly from the bed, she scrambled back into her gown, holding it to her bosom. She slid timidly past them, throwing a frightened look up at Ares, before bolting like a deer, fastening her dress back into place as she went.
The messenger sighed; someone had been foolish enough to ignite his half-brother's infamous temper and it was he who would have to suffer for it. Swallowing his snarky comment about how a long, passionate romp should have been just the thing to cure his foul mood, which retrospectively might have only exacerbated the situation (seeing as he was here, rather than with Aphrodite, who, in all likelihood must have been scared off by his aggressive temperament), Hermes automatically took a step backwards into his empty room. Without the assistance of flight, he was a head shorter, and from this standpoint, his visitor appeared far larger and infinitely more menacing than usual.
Conjuring a miniature roll of parchment, he asked in a quite a different tone, stylus at the ready, "Now that we are rid of any prying ears, I believe you had a message that you needed delivered..."
Weapons. The God of War had sought him out, chased off his bedmate, because he wanted weapons, little surprise there. Not even the company of the finest woman in all of existence could pull his bloodthirsty sibling's mind from the battlefield. What a frustrating life he must have led, not even being able to find relief from his obsession through fornication.
On the other hand, the younger of the two happened to enjoy nothing more than a vigorous tryst, and tried ruefully to push from his mind the fact that he should have been tumbling about in a tangle of sheets and sweat-slicked limbs at this very moment, focusing instead on the words that he penned. As if he were not already being a nuisance, Ares seemed to think it was as good a time as any to try his hand at creativity, making it abundantly clear that such things should be left to Athena. He wanted, for instance, a helmet that allowed its wearer to see behind him, a self-driving chariot that could be converted into a cuirass, among other, equally odd items, some of which sounded as if he had thought them up on the spot—probably not far from the truth, considering how he hesitated every so often.
"Well, I see you mean to not only deter myself from achieving intimacy, but also Hephaestus." The gripe had tumbled from the sarcastic and rather inebriated courier's lips before he could help himself and he instinctively stepped back another pace, holding his hands up in surrender. "All I am saying is that the construction of so much weaponry…" he amended, a concern for his well-being having an incredibly sobering effect "…and you are quite the visionary…would not leave him a moment to himself, which would be unfortunate because he will be on his honey…"
"That," the elder had interjected sharply, moving forward to close the distance between them, "is precisely the point. I would sooner rot for eternity in the deepest pits of Tartarus than see him have her."
And so went Hermes on gilded wings to Cyprus, to interfere with the marriage of a brother whom he held no grudge towards, lest he be strangled by a different, extremely possessive one, who had staked a claim on the ethereal beauty that he himself desired desperately. Seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself as Hephaestus pored over the conveniently absent Ares' outlandish list, he offered Aphrodite a dazzling grin and a rose that, true to form as the patron of thieves, he had surreptitiously nicked from one of the very vases decorating the tabletop. If the king of the skies thought his sons' feud over the Goddess of Love was over, he was sorely mistaken, it was only just beginning.
Author's Note, Pt. II: And Ares makes an appearance after all, ruining things for Hermes, who in turn is interrupting Hephaestus (who unfortunately wouldn't be getting laid anyway...though who thought they were in the middle of something at the beginning?). We have a lot of cock-blocking going on here! The Olympians are pretty much the definition of a dysfunctional family...speaking of, my version of the Pantheon is a little disorganized, with Aphrodite and Hephaestus being the newest additions, when in mythology, I'm pretty sure that Dionysus was the last main god to arrive and Hestia gave up her throne for him, but they all got there eventually, so I'm sure nobody minds ;) .
I would like to thank Googlegirl8 for both following and favoriting, Ashen of the Mist for favoriting and leaving a wonderfully long, positive review, along with Danielle for another extremely sweet review.
To my reviewers:
Danielle: Thank you for your kind words. I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)
Ashen of the Mist: I think I actually blushed reading your review or at the very least grinned like an idiot. What a lovely welcome to FanFiction! It was actually because of your suggestion that this chapter is so full of Aphrodite-ness. I tried to develop her more and further get a feel for her character and I'm pretty happy with the result. I'm actually my own harshest critic and my writing process is literally filled with moments where I'm like, "Yes, I'm a genius!" and "Aaaah, I suuuuck!", with not much grey area in between, so I'm very glad that you think it came together cohesively.
To all potential reviewers: Don't be shy! I don't bite...well, there was that one time, but in my defense I was really hungry. As I mentioned before, reviews are like cookies to me...and they just might make the world a safer place for everyone else.
On that note, I leave with the promise that I'm not a (total) lunatic, and bid you all happy reading.
-Impersonating Sugar