Author's Note: Funny story (not really), this chapter was actually fully written about a month ago, but I went back and did a massive overhaul, adding a lot more dialogue than in the previous ones. It's therefore about twice as long as the others-because of the wait, I'm going to post the whole thing as one chapter, rather than breaking it up into two. Other highlights include two new goddesses being introduced and some mature content, though in my opinion, it's relatively soft-core.
Thank you for your patience and enjoy!
The blacksmith god tore his attentions away from the parchment and tucked it away in the folds of his tunic. His creative mind was already racing, trying to envision how to covert the odd assortment of items from written word into solid objects, fulfilling the requests to the best of his abilities while not compromising functionality.
"A tall order," he remarked, half to himself, "but it presents a multitude of possibilities. Could you kindly relay the message that I will commence production…" Both his bride and younger half-brother jumped at hearing his voice, having previously become engrossed in conspicuously admiring the other's form and flirtatiously bantering while outwardly saying nothing at all. While Aphrodite let slip from her hand the rose she had been gifted, Hermes did his best to look as if his recipient had held his undivided attention all along; of course he was not envisioning his sister-in-law devoid of any covering! "…once our honeymoon is over?" Anxious as he was to begin his work, his priorities had since changed. No longer was he bachelor: he had been granted a wife after a lifetime of self-imposed solitude, devoted to his craft and his craft alone, truly a one-sided affair. Neglecting such an extraordinary being would be nothing short of blasphemous.
At his polite refusal, their guest's somewhat cocky, jovial expression faltered ever-so-slightly and he swallowed hard with the feel of metaphorical fingers closing around his throat. That would not do! The King of the Gods and his queen, drunk on their victory after the Titanomachy, the decade-long battle against and resulting imprisonment of much of the generation before, had honeymooned for some three hundred years. Seeing as, these days, their marriage was fraught with tension, what they actually did in each other's sole company for several centuries was anyone's guess.
To the messenger, the timespan seemed far too lengthy a duration to have to endure Ares' displeasure, which could be manifested in a disconcerting multitude of ways. For instance, he might choose to hand-grind Hermes into dust for failing him as a forced accomplice, or he could take the opposite approach, make no attempt at physical retribution whatsoever and opt instead for rendering his younger brother's bed a cold and desolate place by luring away every goddess the courier laid eyes on with his inexplicable appeal to the opposite sex.
Needless to say, Hermes was not about to passively await whatever enactment of vengeance the war god was doubtlessly plotting already…being roped into this insanity was cause enough for annoyance.
His endeavor however was not wholly futile, for he was graced by the presence of the incomparable Aphrodite on his delivery. His elder sibling's borderline obsession with the Goddess of Love was almost justifiable: she was, after all, the epitome of beauty, evoking an all-encompassing desire that no god seemed immune to. Already titillated by his raunchy telepathic dialogue with her, his body had begun to ache with a desperate, searing need...those full, dewy lips begging to be tasted…that smooth, unblemished flesh begging to be caressed, every inch…was that dress of hers any lower cut, he would surely see her nipples, imagining them the same hue as the fabric that so barely clothed her.
Any guilt he had initially felt at meddling with Hephaestus' marriage, especially after seeing the mismatched pair appearing to be enjoying themselves upon his arrival, having to be the hindrance that prevented him from consummating the union, dissipated, the new groom becoming nothing more than an obstacle to his modified cause.
"I am afraid, my lord, that I failed to impress on you the severity of the situation. Even now the enemy forces bear down upon them, sweeping through the land like a plague," he improvised, his flair for theatrics compensating for the little he had witnessed of combat. (Thinking that Hephaestus would not be too inclined to accommodate Ares, who had once returned from his forge with every unprotected bit of flesh scratched and bloody, and dented armor, he had altered the original text, making it sound as if the anonymous Olympian who had sent him was entreating a favor for his champion, a brave and righteous general, unwaveringly loyal to his king, a beacon of hope to his men, and…totally fictitious.)
"Without your exceptional weaponry to aid them, I fear it could make the difference between a crushing defeat and a glorious victory, a victory that would be sung of for decades to come." He felt a tad smug at the compelling argument he had raised. No god could resist an opportunity to have praise heaped upon his name, or so he thought. Unbeknownst to him, the master smith happened to be a rare, more moralistic breed of immortal.
Hephaestus' brow furrowed as a battle raged within his psyche. Leaving his wife to own her devices, during a pivotal point in their budding relationship, would make him a poor excuse for a husband, leaving mortals improperly armed would make him feel unworthy of his power, the one thing about himself in which he held any degree of esteem. Surely there was a compromise that could be reached.
"Mayhap I could devote a few hours each night or early morn to the equipment's assembly," he proposed, now involving his bride in the conversation, his tone questioning as he sought her approval, "if such an arrangement would be agreeable to you, of course."
"Be it our honeymoon or not, you must dedicate as much time as necessary to the completion of the task at hand," urged Aphrodite, both out of obligation and sensing some sort of mischief afoot, and finding herself intrigued. "Particularly if the scales could so easily be tipped in the favor of either a 'crushing defeat' or a 'glorious victory'." Her gaze turned quizzically back to Hermes, reflecting that he was so unlike her spouse and her escort from the evening before, lithe while their statures conveyed power, a headful of tawny locks while theirs bordered black, not a single hair to be found on his still-smooth countenance. You scoundrel, she crooned, this war and the supposed weapons needed to win it are merely a ruse to lure my husband away so that you might have me for your own nefarious purposes.
My lady, you are as intuitive as you are beautiful, answered Hermes admiringly, perfectly at ease with allowing her to believe that it had been he who had devised such a scheme. Such underhandedness was highly atypical of Ares anyways, much more tailored to his own methods. I assumed the marriage was unfavorable to you and thought I might spare you of his wearisome companionship. Had he approached her sooner, she would have leapt at the chance, viewing it as liberation, though now she was more hesitant; her heart since been warmed exponentially towards the man she had wedded—and did not find his company so wearing after all.
You are rather bold in your supposition that I wished to be rid of my husband, she reproached him gently, somewhat affronted on behalf of her spouse, even if he had heard nothing but what was spoken aloud, though such feelings slipped quickly away like water through one's grasping fingers. The need for intimacy still compelled her far more than the bonds of friendship, which were yet unfamiliar to her and would likely take centuries for her to gain a complete understanding and appreciation. Almost as if her inaudible words had been a cue, the blacksmith god rose to take his leave.
Something noticeable in the air had shifted, making Hephaestus feel as he had begun the evening with one goddess and ended it with another, identical to in image to his wife. No detail went unnoticed by his sharp eyes however small it was and, even if he appeared diverted by the scroll, he had detected subtle changes in Aphrodite's mannerisms as she beheld Hermes, simpering, preening, minute be they may. The realization weighted down upon him like the burden of Atlas: never would she look at him in such an ardent way. He decided to put an end to the evening, retreating to his safe haven so that he might nurse his hurt feelings in piece.
Such a fool he was, thinking that she might come to love him…and yet hope clung to his heart, truly the cruelest of the curses that had been contained within Pandora's Box. Already he believed himself to be falling in love with her, her allure, her natural charm, eradicating his good sense and his caution. He had an eternity to try and win her heart; the sooner the arms were finished, the sooner he could commence earning her devotion. Visions of jewelry that he could make for her as he worked filled his head.
"A war is looming, I had best begin at once," he remarked, attempting to sound offhanded. "I do hope your evening was pleasurable…" An endearment had formed almost unbidden on his tongue, though he quickly swallowed it back. Trailing off uncomfortably, he made an awkward bow before limping off a pace or two and being engulfed in thick black smoke.
Aphrodite looked somberly at the spot where seconds ago had been her husband. She felt oddly…conflicted…wondering if perhaps she had been the one to hasten his departure, if her subtle flirtatious gestures had gone noticed by him after all. She tried to brush off her unease by assuring herself that it was because of zealousness that he left. "I suppose there is little to be done about it now," she lamented dramatically, referring to their previous discussion, "the fires of the forge have been ignited within him, the warmth of a woman's bare flesh paling in comparison to their heat. How cruel be the Fates to see me denied during my sojourn in Cyprus. Had I only someone to distract me in his absence."
"Considering that it was my doing that robbed you of your husband on false pretenses, I believe it would be only fitting that I be the one to attend you, see that you are deprived of nothing," the messenger gallantly offered, dropping to the ground in front of her.
"You would ensure that I was thoroughly satisfied?" she queried, turning fully around in her chair to face him, willing away the sandals on her feet, and rubbing her toes up his leg. He extended a hand to her to help her from her seat. Though they no longer had need for unspoken communication, the look in her brother-in-law's suddenly gleaming eyes—gold, she noted as her heart gave an excited leap, like Ares'— told her all she needed to hear…
On a bed of sand, beneath a blanket of blue velvet bedecked in shimmering diamonds, they languidly learned all there was to know of each other's bodies, which were contoured with shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. The whisper of waves lapping against the shoreline nearly drowned out the admiring words passed between long kisses and impassioned sighs and moans. Their hips swayed harmonically against their partner's, their limbs entwined, and their fingers. His hand drifted upwards to comb through, to stroke, her crown of aureate locks reverentially. She arched longingly into his touch, her arms stretching out above her head, gliding along the silken sheets that at her wordless command now replaced the fine, sun-warmed granules on which they had previously laid. A primal cry for release began to build within them and in answer to its consuming call, their joint movements intensified in velocity, no longer lingering and tender but with an air of urgency.
Even after their pleasure peaked into a glorious crescendo that left the both of them gasping, they remained tangled in an amorous embrace, wrapped so tightly together that it was impossible to distinguish where one's form began and the other's stopped.
As the first morning's light crept tentatively into the open, spacious bedroom, Aphrodite carefully extracted herself of the vine-like grasp that pinned her to a warm, bare chest and climbed stealthily off the mattress to prepare herself to adjoin again with her husband…a strange thing in which to call him, seeing as their marital bed yet remained cold, while her own had since been filled. She padded over to the nearest circle of silver and smiled at the goddess staring back at her. Most certainly a night spent with someone well suited her: her face was prettily flushed, making her eyes look all the brighter, her complexion glowing, her hair wild from fingers running through it but never did it hold a more lustrous sheen.
From the bed came an indistinct murmur as the messenger stirred, interrupting her perusal. Glancing halfheartedly over her shoulder she observed him, thinking at first he would wake, only to be proven wrong when he instead rolled over. Well, let him have his rest, she decided, turning back to her mirror to make a couple miniscule adjustments, he had performed magnificently last night and deserved an opportunity to recuperate from the excursion. Already the ardor from the evening before was wearing away, when physically with a man, she loved him, once he had satisfied her, she had a tendency to regard him less fondly, unless seeing in him long-term potential. Enjoyable as her time with him had been, she was feeling somewhat more ambitious; her sights remained set on Ares.
She stole silently across the room to noiselessly ease open her wardrobe and pull from it the first garment to catch her eye. Briefly, she contemplated calling the Kharites to her service, for their aid had become very much appreciated, though immediately after, she decided against it and clothed herself independently; the fewer who knew, the better kept a secret stayed. The only two to know of her tryst were herself and Hermes, whom she hoped would remain silent about it. Her mother-in-law, the Lady Hera, had caught her in the arms of the war god just a couple days prior—the last thing Aphrodite wished was to cause the already-anguished queen any further grievances, that and it was in her own best interest not to turn upon herself that formidable temper.
For the time being, she resolved to act as a good wife would, or so imagined one would behave, following the example set by the Goddess of Marriage—and attempt her hand at fidelity, keeping company only with her spouse, who, curiously enough, she felt a lingering affection towards. Love him, she never would, but she had since come to like him quite well and would not mind passing her time with him. Consulting the mirror one final time and deeming the results satisfactory, she vanished in a faint wisp of pearly smoke, unconcerned about leaving her still-sleeping caller behind.
A one-time visitor could see his own way to the door.
In what was fast becoming routine, the assumed meeting spot—today being the beach, since cleared of the extravagant dinner setting—was desolate. The love goddess sunned herself for a little while as she waited, though as time continued to creep by and there still was no sighting of her spouse, she got to her feet, brushed herself off, and gave a slight huff of annoyance, recalling that it had been she who practically drove him away to the forge. 'Dedicate as much time as you need', she had said, which, to his ears, must have sounded more like an attempt to rid herself of him.
This business of being friends was not progressing too smoothly. Though highly attuned to the emotions of those around her, she somehow remained completely and consistently ignorant of his emotional state and sensitive nature, his need for reassurance, and now managed to alienate him altogether.
Seeing as her tactlessness had lead Hephaestus to the assumption that she had little interest in associating with him, what he had initially suggested to be but a 'few hours' of work nightly or during the wee hours of the morning evolved into an endless marathon spent in his smithy. Occasionally, a wondrous trinket would emerge at her temple: once, a most extraordinary necklace that had to have been inspired by her image, delicate and graceful in build, made of gold that was the exact shade as her hair and amethysts swirled with pink to emulate her irises—truly a labor of love. Later came matching earrings and several bracelets of the same design.
While he labored ceaselessly, her days were more leisurely spent: attending the festivals thrown in her name by the residents of Cyprus and Cythera—mortals had an innate ability to sense when their patron deity walked among them— and flitting from temple to temple to arrange love matches in a display of her good will. How she loved the inhabitants of these islands and spent much of her time among them, sometimes simply watching them go about their lives, assuming the form of a human herself. Her wanderings brought her into frequent contact with prospective bedmates, and exercising self-control became more and more difficult with every smile bestowed upon her, each charming word spoken. Still she tried to be cautious, keep the queen of the skies off her trail.
The fear of the repercussions that awaited her, regardless of her immortality, allowed Aphrodite to abstain for an entire, excruciating week. However, the consumption of too much wine at one gala event (her tolerance for the drink had greatly decreased in her mortal guise) stripped her of her inhibitions and she awakened the following morning with a pounding head and a dawning realization that she had spent a second night in the arms of a man who was not her husband.
Remarkably not smote for her trio of offenses, she became recklessly emboldened and her exploits increased tenfold, switching bed partners as quickly as one would change dance partners on a crowded ballroom floor. She simply could not help herself (not even the all-powerful king could master his insatiable desires, so how could she be expected to, particularly when such promiscuity was in her very essence?), and yet, for as many men as she laid with, she was only ever mildly sated.
The need was met, however barely, and she would equate it to thirsting for fine wine, but being given only lukewarm water. After a particularly dissatisfying encounter that resulted in her having to manually guide herself to release once she sent him on his way, she began to worry that Ares had ruined all other males for her by raising her standards for a potential lover exponentially, and that she might never be able to wholeheartedly enjoy the act of lovemaking until she had last lain with him. It was he whom she thought of during her romp with Hermes, he who she fantasized about while tangled up with all others succeeding the messenger. There were ways around this obstruction however: just because she could not yet have him physically, thinking it for the best to stay in the general vicinity of where she was supposedly honeymooning, did not mean that she could not enjoy him visually.
Thus, she began to admit only lovers who bore something of a resemblance to him (the others who did not meet her criteria, she vowed she would return for, after coupling with the war god, therefore ridding herself of the persistent yearning), casting an illusion over them to make up for any shortcomings found. Her latest paramour, a fisherman by trade, a man who had likely never seen battle nor strayed far from his birthplace, now looked the part of a rugged soldier…a divine, rugged soldier, who stood proudly yet submissively before her, bathed in the candle- and torchlight, as she sat majestically upon her throne.
Her throne room was perhaps her favorite room in this temple. The seat itself was draped in cream and accented along the backrest, arms, and three platform steps leading up to it with deep purple, standing beneath a banner of gold fabric and an ivy-covered gray-stone arch, and flanked by mauve curtains and, a little further away, two statues in her likeness. Taupe granite planters filled with lush green vegetation and chased with torches ran horizontally in front of the statues and vertically parallel along an eggshell-colored rug from the first arch to a second, a rounded brass candleholder nestled among the broad leaves where stone met stone, making for four in total. The replica of the God of War, wearing armor that he could not feel as part of the spell placed on him and awaiting servitude, made an especially nice touch.
She rose, descended the podium, and closely circled him, trailing a hand over his chest, his shoulders, his back, as she moved, admiring the accuracy of her enchantment and appreciating the muscle that was naturally his, while under the pretense of assessing him. Mindful that no mortal could stand in the presence of a deific being without facing an imminent death, she retained the form of one herself; her eyes shimmering magenta as she lusted for him revealed her to be anything but. His eyes were not exactly right, remaining an uninspiring brown, for only a god could truly impersonate another—and even then that depended on said god's knack for mimicry in general, all could assume forms outside of their own (and likewise force the transformations of mortals) though, as with every power, some had a stronger grasp than others—but for the most part she was satisfied.
He might well have been her most passable rendition yet, save for the acquiescent expression of a human and those darned irises. Then again, it was not as if she was going to gaze intently into his dark orbs as their bodies melded together into one, for doing so would only shatter the illusion, leave her in dismay.
"How tense you are," she observed, her breath caressing his ear as she gently kneaded his shoulders. Her voice was both soothing—hypnotic even—and sultry. "Surely a man as fine as yourself has serviced a goddess before." A pregnant pause followed. "No?" queried the goddess, continuing her ministrations, increasing the pressure she applied to the tissue and smiling in satisfaction as he melted into her touch. As much as she enjoyed being on the receiving end of explorative hands and lips, she relished the power she had to leave her paramours reeling…writhing…in an almost agonizing ecstasy. "Then as your first, allow me to introduce to a pleasure unlike any you have ever known."
Ares' latest lookalike groaned deep and hoarsely. "G-gods above," the young man choked out, near overwhelmed by the sensations he was feeling: his muscles turned to water as she rubbed them, his nerves to fire as she sucked softly at his neck. She gave his prickling skin a little nip, causing him to shudder in surprise and longing.
"None of that," she scolded mildly, swirling her tongue over the same spot. "Tonight, you will sing your praises to me and me alone." Ceasing her massage, she let her fingers skim slowly, so very slowly, down his spine and over his buttocks—between his legs, parting them—before stepping back a pace. "Join me," she enticed as he turned around, using her swinging hips as a beacon to guide him to her personal chambers…
…Up on Mount Olympus, unaware that his image had been closely duplicated for the sake of Aphrodite's fleshly gratification, Ares was spending his evening in much the same fashion, though the two gods' mating styles were as different as their domains. Hers was sweet and sensual, his was fierce and furious.
Sweat beaded on his back, running down the muscular planes in rivulets and stinging as it mixed with the ichor drawn by his partner's raking nails. His hide had been torn to ribbon yet it did not appear to be demonstrative enough of her pleasure, for she found purchase on his shoulder and stretched herself upward to sink her teeth into his neck. With a guttural groan, his eyes rolled back as both ecstasy and agony blazed through his nerves, first at the jugular and then throughout his body, and, in retaliation, fitted his hand entirely around her throat, yanking her free of his and applying enough force to be rewarded with a gasp that was in part in an exhilarated moan, a plea for more of the harsh treatment that the both of them reveled in receiving and administering.
Spurred onward by the look of supplication, he tightened his grip and simultaneously thrust so forcefully into her that he pushed her further up the mattress. She reached backwards to grip the headboard that she had nearly been driven headfirst into and raised her hips off the bed entirely, her legs constricting more tightly around his waist, squeezing her feminine muscles around him and hanging on for dear life as he fell into a punishing rhythm that drove them both closer to climax. It was she who shattered first and the sight of her writhing beneath him drove him over the edge.
No sooner had he recovered from the aftershock, did he withdraw and roll off and away from her with a complete sense of detachment; his needs had been sated—she had benefitted as well, he never left a lover disappointed physically, though a goddess expecting him to behave dotingly would be sorely dissatisfied—and he was through with her. What she did following their tryst mattered little to him, so long as it did not involve bothering him while he tried to sleep.
Come tomorrow, the wounds he had sustained, the jagged marks gouged into his flesh, the amber bruising from the multiple bites, would be smarting, but for the time being the heavy, drowsy haze that accompanied such a violent entanglement immunized him to the sensations of pain. Surprisingly, he had had ulterior motives for summoning her to his court: regardless of the fact that the dust had not yet properly settled from his last rampage, he was already itching to return to the battlefield and called upon his frequent companion to incite another war. Olympus had become more a gilded cage than a utopia as ennui and restlessness consumed him. (Incidentally, his fellows would liken the celestial palace to a snake-pit; unable to find an outlet, Ares resorted to lashing at out as quickly as a cobra).
He found that his second favorite past-time provided little relief: no goddess could compare to Aphrodite, whom he sought with an almost fevered desperation, though he would vehemently deny any assertions of this and proceed to make whosoever had gall enough to suggest so instantly regret their words—the fact that she continued to elude him frustrated him ceaselessly, and laying with another served only as a bitter reminder. Still, there was no denying Eris' knack for providing a dreadfully bored god with a much-needed distraction. Distract him she had, via a swell of barely-covered breasts shoved right under his nose. True to her capricious nature, she had had her own ideas about how their meeting was to proceed and made her entrance by solidifying wantonly draped—and in a state of partial undress—across his lap as he sat broodingly upon his throne.
"You required my presence, O Incomparable God of War, destroyer of cities and nations alike?" she had asked in an exaggeratedly formal voice which spectacularly contradicted her present position, earning from him a reluctant smirk despite his visibly foul mood. Formalities aside, she swung herself upwards and around to straddle him, adopting a much more familiar tone as she placed her hands upon his chest and gave him a firm push into the leather-bound backrest. "It has been quite some time since we last adjoined, has it not?"
"Had I wished to be ravished, Eris, I would have specifically expressed so when I sent for you. The activity I desire is combat," he had stated petulantly, nevertheless making no attempt to stop the fingers that worked busily at the clasp holding his garbs in place nor the ones creeping up the nape of his neck to knot dominatingly in his hair. Almost on their own accord, his hands moved to splay across the small of her back and cup her buttocks, crushing her against his chest as their lips and then tongues melded together. Eris broke free of the frenzied kiss to swallow the triumphant grin that she could scarcely contain; formidable be her lord may, he was, as evidenced by his cock straining against the confines of his clothing, first and foremost very much a male, and, like all males, especially those stemming from the branches of Zeus' family tree, easily tempted by a woman's advances.
"Oh, but what of my needs?" she pouted, using his forearms for support as she arched her body, all the more prominently displaying her bosom. "I create for you a situation that ultimately results in the fight you are craving and I find myself still neglected as you embark for the mortal realm to join them...I think not." Her grip tightened, her head tipped back and her eyes closed as he stroked down her collarbone to the crevice of her bust, his desire for combat fast becoming a lust for something else, and she leaned further back, welcoming his long-absent touch. "Yield first to my demands and I shall see after that you as well are pleased."
Such was the dynamic of their relationship, built on the foundation of convenience, a cyclical exchange of 'services', rather than fond sentiments. Through her efforts were many a battle born, hence her usefulness to him, whereas he was among the few who could tolerate her irksome presence long enough to satiate her voracious sexual appetite. She interpreted his lack of a dismissal as an invitation to remain in his bed, and lay beside him in the wake of their coupling, still panting from the exertion, but hoping that he would catch his breath and soon be as eager as she for another session. To her dismay, he appeared to have succumbed already to sleep—and she cursed her brother Hypnos for cutting short her evening. Peeved by his lack of endurance when she had anticipated that their romp would last throughout the night, but euphoric after reaching her peak, her body weightless yet simultaneously leaden, she supposed that she was feeling generous enough to allot him a few hours of rest, give him a chance to recuperate.
Whilst awaiting his awakening, she decided to occupy herself by doing what she did best, making mischief and causing commotion—and it was all the better if she happened to fulfill her side of the alleged 'exchange of services', provide her lover with some incentive. Long were her sights set on two neighboring kingdoms, teetering on the edge of decimating the other since their foundation, though the most recent generation of rulers had attempted to establish a truce—however, should, say, one of their daughters happen to go missing from her chambers in the dead of night, seemingly taken by their new ally, their efforts would be in vain. Chaos, glorious chaos, would erupt as a frantic search for her broke out, accompanied soon after by war, she thought with sinister glee, envisioning herself and Ares riding in his chariot through the midst of things.
Contrary to popular belief, Eris was not wholly devoid of compassion; the girl would be returned of course to her distraught father (assuming he and his realm survived what she expected to be a gruesome ordeal, fueled by centuries' worth of ill feelings), though not necessarily in the pristine condition in which she had been 'borrowed'.
Thick, black smoke engulfed her and she reemerged outside of the curtains that shrouded the bed, fastening herself primly back into her tattered grey chiton, which had been removed and discarded somewhere during the journey to his personal quarters. What a journey it had been: the harbinger of discord shook herself with an ear-to-ear to grin and rolled her neck and shoulders to ease the stiffness that came from being run repeatedly into the hallway walls, leaving spidery cracks in the marble. From between her shoulder blades grew and then unfurled an enormous pair of wings, like those of a gargantuan raven. Throwing back her white-blonde head, she laughed, shrill and echoing, and launched herself into the air with a burst of wind, circling round the room in a preliminary lap before sailing out the window and away into the night.
Out of the darkness arose a cacophonic symphony, horses snorting and pawing uneasily in their stables, eyes round and white, dogs whining or growling, tails tucked low and hackles raised, screams ranging in pitch from accusation to terror from the mouths of mortals, accompanied by a chorus of wails, as Strife swept across the land, inflicting misery and hardship upon all she encountered, followed by that same discordant, resounding laughter…
…After her immensely productive night turned gradually to daybreak, she returned to Olympus, ready to reap her rewards, her silhouette shadowed against the brightening sky. She plunged into a steep, corkscrew dive, the lesser gods' palaces no more than a blur as she tore up the mountainside, occasionally zigzagging around a tree branch, a statue or fountain that sprang seemingly out of nowhere, before reaching one of the topmost buildings, one reserved for each of the elite twelve, and swooping back into the war god's bedchamber. There she alighted gracefully, silently, despite her initial impulse to cause a ruckus; her wings, nearly double the size of her relatively petite frame, folded as would a bird's and then receded into nothingness, leaving only unmarred skin where they had sprouted. With the temporary elimination of her wings came also the removal of her dress, the cloth trickling down her torso like droplets of water as her flesh turned to vapor.
The mattress heaved a groan when Eris dropped onto it with what was meant to be a jarring bounce, but its occupant did not so much as stir from his slumber; there was no change in his soft breathing. She tilted her head this way and that, eyes adjusting effortlessly to the darkness that still shrouded them, taking in a sight that was beheld by few. Had she not been in this room, masculine in design, decorated in a minimalist fashion in black leather, dark-stained wood, and garnet fabric, multiple times, she would have thought she had encroached upon another god. Asleep, he looked like another god entirely, his features softened, his face uncharacteristically peaceful…not remotely matching her preferred image…she liked her plaything best when making known his lethality, unleashed from the chains of behavioral expectations placed upon him by the immortal society and running rampant, ruthlessly cutting down any man who opposed him. Her gaze turned predatory as she drank in the muscles carved from centuries of real and simulated battle, the deep lines cut into his hipbones, pointing enticingly downward to a prize only just concealed by the low-slung blanket.
Grinning wickedly, she crawled beneath the covers and between his legs to coax him into wakefulness, when the unthinkable happened: her raging libido was briefly eradicated. The very second the point of her tongue glided along his inner thigh, he gave a protesting utterance, addressing as if she were someone else, the second occurrence in the span of a few hours' time. When first he had done so, crying out with a soul-shattering longing for another as he spilled his seed within her, she had thought it might have been deliberate (for she would often do the same, finding the fury and jealousy it evoked in a partner to be far more exhilarating than any ministration), though being twice called by the wrong name seemed much less an erotic gesture and far more an absent-minded inability to sort through and correctly use the appellations of the innumerable women he entertained in her place. She out of any should be memorable.
"Leave me be, Athena," he complained, leaving the Goddess of Wisdom's antithesis positively spitting mad…
…Ares was wrenched from a sound sleep into a very grudging state of semi-consciousness when his half-sister invaded his mind. If you are to borrow my time, brother, proper etiquette at the very least mandates punctuality, she reproached, her summons a sharp tug, as though he were a slave at the end of his master's chain. He recalled vaguely that he had successfully badgered her into agreeing to a sparring match—truthfully, she had consented for no other reason than to mollify him, however briefly be it may, to keep him from antagonizing those less suited to handle his explosive tantrums—though he was certain that it was not supposed to take place until later that day. Then again… His polar opposite in every way, she naturally favored the earliest of mornings, while he, unless engrossed in warfare (in which he would become manic in his absolute absorption and go for days without rest), would not usually emerge from his chambers until late afternoon.
Still moderately disoriented from the rude awakening, he found himself highly disinclined to move from the pillow that had conformed to the ideal shape, intending to remain there for hours to come. Considering that he could resist an outright command by his mother, the right hand of Zeus could not expect to hold any sway in budging him, but damn if she was not gratingly insistent in her attempts.
"Leave me be, Athena," he moaned aloud, keeping his eyes tightly shut; in his bleary state, he failed to realize that his loathed sister would not hear him unless he communicated by the same means as she had—nor that he appeared to have developed the ability to offend without even needing to be fully awake. No sooner had he slipped back into a light doze was he roused by a different woman vocalizing her displeasure.
"The patroness of Athens am I now?" she fumed. "You dare compare me to the likes of her?" Hearing the voice itself was enough of a shock, since he assumed he had sent her on her way before falling asleep, but the following slap, hard enough to almost be painful, would have rendered him completely stunned, if not for instead igniting his defensive instincts. He erupted upwards in an explosion of sheets and covers, flicking his hand to cast open a gap within the canopy, allowing for just enough light to enter without blinding himself, and pounced on her, flattening her onto the mattress—to her happy surprise—and effectively immobilizing her. (Why would one need enemies when they had allies who assaulted them whilst they slept?). Her obsidian eyes, ever swirling with smoke and shadows, to the point where staring into them for prolonged periods of time could become dizzying, bore unflinchingly into the gold that was swallowing up his.
"Tell me, my lord, do you mean to take me now as you have your precious Athena?" taunted Eris, who, despite being delighted by the turn of circumstances, was still bristling at the comparison made between herself and that insufferable, self-righteous…there was no shortage of words in which to convey her total aversion towards the other. The half-siblings kept completely different social circles comprised of more minor powers, an implied condition of membership being hostile feelings towards their lord or lady's counterpart and those who followed either him or her.
Confusion sapped her assailant's fury; his ichor was pumping, his muscles tense and ready for the kill, yet his head lagged considerably behind his body, incapable of processing all that much of anything so excruciatingly early. "What is the reason for all this talk of my accursed sister?" he demanded with more weariness than hostility, hearing the name, but temporarily unable to attach meaning to what was being said. For perhaps the first time in his existence, he found himself wishing for a moment of peace in which to gain an understanding of why every goddess on the mountain seemed to feel the need to harass him—and before Helios had even made his first round across the sky at that.
His captive wriggled beneath him until she managed to free her trapped hands, using one to begin a slow path up his arm, over his shoulder, down his back and ribs, and along his pelvis, the other playing almost absently in her long hair, which was strewn across the sheets. Though not emotionally attached to him in the slightest, she would openly admit that she adored his physique. "It was you who made first mention of her," Eris reminded him tartly. "I was merely attempting to bring about pleasant start to your day when you dismissed me, using her name to do so," she clarified when met with a decidedly blank expression. "Best learn to distinguish betwixt your paramours; I dare say that none shall be as forgiving of such grave mistakes as I."
Gradually awareness dawned on the God of War, followed by a surge of indignation. "I used her name because it was with her I was conversing," he snarled, realizing belatedly that in his delirium, he had spoken orally as opposed to telepathically, thus delivering the message to the wrong recipient, the faint stinging of his reddened cheek proof of his mistake. "She and I have arranged later today for a duel and she sought a confirmation of my attendance—in that immensely grating way of hers; the only arena in which Athena and I will ever meet is the battlefield. I should have your tongue for that repugnant assumption of intimacy." Still far from ready to forgive him, whatever she might say, Eris nevertheless obliged his request—an invitation if ever she heard one—taking advantage of his more loosely distributed weight and stretching quickly upward to force entry into his mouth, robbing him of his breath.
She had had no doubt of the effect she would have on him, his anger was fast forgotten and his even faster-hardening cock pressed insistently against her thigh, but at the last moment, jealousy got the better of her as she recalled the first goddess whom she had been confused for, and tightly closed her legs, barricading her entrance. "And what of Aphrodite?" she challenged, turning her head away to prevent him from further kissing her; she would otherwise lose her resolve to punish him.
The warning edge in Ares' tone was unmistakable, and again he reflexively tensed as if preparing to strike. "What of her?"
"Is she another sparring partner? She cannot possibly be a lover of yours, for since her arrival, she has been betrothed to another—and even as we speak, she is far too busy honeymooning with her husband, surrendering herself to him,to give you even a passing thought. And such a pity it is. So rapturously you cried out for her last night. Oh, how you must pine for her."
In response, the war god pried apart his gritted teeth to give a humorless bark of laughter. "With your unbecoming envy comes delusions. I have whores aplenty to sustain me: what need have I for any one goddess in particular, be it Aphrodite…or, for that matter, yourself? Certainly you are among my most frequented bedmates, but that has less to do with favoritism and more with accessibility," he continued, their constant adjoining leaving him almost able to predict her counter, that of all the concubines he entertained, it was she he most preferred. Arguably, this was true, but life for him would become unbearable should she realize this, and instead assumed a façade of indifference, indifference being the ultimate weapon to use against Eris—she thrived on attention, on getting a rise out of others, a trait the both of them shared. "I expect you gone by the time I am clothed."
Athena, ever the heavily-indulged pet of Zeus, would have her early morning match yet—and then still have time enough to weave a tapestry, or plant an olive tree, whatever useless tasks she performed that somehow designated her more important to the pantheon and the mortals than he. Just the thought of her had the same withering effect on his cock as dousing himself in icy water and, grimacing, he readied himself. Paying absolutely no mind whatsoever to his decree, the personification of discord instead propped herself up lazily on her elbow and watched with interest as he crossed the room in several long strides to the wardrobe, balking as he clothed himself in a short tunic. As he shoved gauntlets onto his wrists, his sculpted, scratched back to her, she rolled noiselessly to the edge of the bed, got to her feet, smirked, and turned again to smoke.
Feeling reenergized, anxious for the impending fight, Ares made quick work of his armor, fastening his greaves and cuirass. He reached then for his helmet, only to find it absent from its usual place…heedless as he presented himself to be, he was positively scrupulous when his equipment was concerned, keeping everything immaculate and always close at hand. Out of his peripherals, he glimpsed a flash of light and turned abruptly to find the source. Eris' eyes followed his to the handsome, gleaming helm nestled beneath her arm before lifting back up to stare defiantly into the face of the god who had killed for far more minor offenses; the corners of her lips lifted upwards and she brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the burnished gold.
"Considering that you have likened me to a harlot, I shall act as one and take what I feel is appropriate payment," she declared. "I believe that this will make a fine incentive for you to tear yourself away from your so far fruitless pursuit of Aphrodite and play with me again." Before he could manage even a step, she fled, prize in tow, her horrid laugh resonating throughout the chamber, seeming to grow louder as the distance between them grew further. He scoffed, she thought that she was spiting him by whisking away his helmet.
As was the case with all his more valued possessions, he could simply call it to him at any given time—but for now, he would let her assume that she held it ransom…indulge her by coming to personally retrieve it, bringing with him… retribution…for her cheek and the damage done to his. All dealings with her were maddening…and yet, equally as arousing...
…Olympus' main palace boasted sprawling, carefully manicured gardens, filled with a kaleidoscopic array of flora and shaded by towering trees. At the heart of them was an expansive training area for its less aesthetically-oriented, more militant occupants.
One such occupant, an attractive, albeit austere-looking goddess wearing her dark locks in a practical knot and clad in golden armor, stood surveying the grounds, turning when she heard the faint footfalls of an approaching god—arriving late as always. Athena reflected for the umpteenth time that her brother had no consideration for anyone else's agenda, having nothing of any real importance to do himself—save for wreaking havoc or lazing about when not needlessly shedding blood…or, she amended, attempting to mount all things feminine in form. She raised her famous grey eyes (which, when infrequently enraged, would fade in color to the hot white of their father's thunderbolts) skyward in a bid for patience at the sight of him.
His slovenly appearance contrasted markedly with her tidy one: his hair hung loose and unruly at his shoulders, giant love-marks discolored his neck, and his lips too were bruised and swollen. Nevertheless, he swaggered towards her with all the self-importance of the peacock his mother so favored.
Small wonder the Fates had decreed the appointment of another God of Warfare, her undisciplined, irresponsible counterpart was sorely lacking; an immortal was supposed to serve their worshippers, whereas he lived to serve none but himself, thinking battle a game of all things, a means of satisfying his unquenchable bloodlust. Laughably, he fancied himself a general, the commander of countless armies, when he made the mistakes of a neophyte hoplite—were he a human soldier, he would, in all likelihood, never be permitted to see combat, and rightly so. She would not tolerate such behavior from her troops, yet somehow had no choice but to endure it from her wretch brother, showing up tardy to a meeting that had been prearranged far in advance (ignoring the fact that she had had to allot time from her duties to accommodate him), arriving ill-equipped for said meeting, failing to bring with him his helmet and shield—out of negligence, over-confidence, or a combination of both, she knew not which.
A champion of fair-play amongst opponents, she willed her own helmet—which had been tucked beneath her arm in order to better enjoy the crisp morning air during her indefinite wait—away. Her shield, however, she was not about to discard, seeing no reason why she should need make any additional sacrifices on his behalf. What next, she be expected to remain motionless as a training dummy, perhaps fight him with a large stick as opposed to an actual sword? And speaking of swords, her now-freed hand darted to her scabbard, closing around the hilt of her blade, her rival immediately following suit.
Drawn swords (or brandished spears, depending on the circumstance) and calculating glances punctuated with distaste were their standard greeting, though as he drew closer still, she noted that Ares wore the arrogant smirk that always filled her with an impulse to slap it straight off his face, or better still, humiliate it away. Soon enough, she promised herself, the vast majority of their duels ended with his defeat.
"You are looking very well-pleased with yourself, obvious disfigurement sustained to your throat and mouth aside. Am I to assume that your evening was…" she began curtly, hesitating as she tried to settle upon an appropriate word to characterize his recreational activities. "…well spent?" she finished with an almost imperceptible grimace. Being a sworn virgin, she found great repulsion from such debauchery, but could easily enough turn a blind, or at the very least apathetic, eye to the lewd conduct of those around her—none of whom made secret their love of all things physical in nature—though as per usual, her half-brother fell into a category all his own. Gleaning pleasure from what, to her, appeared to be nothing short of mutilation, was a perversion almost exclusively reserved for Ares (and possibly his underlings, who were as uncouth as he in temperament and mannerisms).
"It was unlike anything you will ever know," he enthused, his rakish grin broadening before he began chuckling immoderately at the realization that his statement held a second implication. She would remain ignorant of carnal intricacies for all of her days, choosing on her own accord eternal destitution. His voice dropped an octave, grew huskier, as he regained his composure and moved closer each time he circled her. "Tell me, does it not gnaw away at your pride that I am the more knowledgeable, have gained mastery of that which has eluded you for centuries? Am I to believe that curiosity has never once crossed your mind, you are contented to never feel the warmth of another's touch…his lips?" he queried, his tongue gliding from between his own to moisten them.
Every step forward he took, she retreated back one; his depravity knew no bounds: he had tried to seduce, steal away, the unfortunate Hephaestus' wife the very night of his wedding, proof that sacred oaths held no meaning to him. He could scarcely be expected to honor hers, not that she was about to present him with an opportunity. Whenever he assumed an almost flirtatious demeanor, it was done with the intent of ruffling her feathers, she knew, but there still remained a chance—a hair-thin one—that he take his charade a step further, do irreparable damage.
Ares was enjoying himself immensely, the discomfort and disgust he caused her positively oozing from her every pore—he felt much the same in actuality, but such was war, where exploiting a foe's weaknesses was imperative. Once, when much younger, infinitely more foolhardy, his half-sister had been his greatest conquest, though he was deterred almost before he began, both by her vehemence in maintaining her maidenhood and her pompous disposition. "Even as we speak, your resolve grows weaker," he purred, making another attempt to close the distance she hurriedly increased between them so that he might tangibly observe her skin crawling, "your desire stronger. Your body betrays you, dear sister, your heartbeat quickens as does your breathing. Why play at coyness any longer? Recant your vows of chastity, submit to me…"
Red swam before Athena's paling eyes. The gall of him, thinking that she would ever submit to him or any man for that matter!
"Desist such talk immediately," she snapped acidly, her blade halting him where he stood as she angled it parallel to an especially ugly mark at his jugular—a bruise that to her horrified fascination was rimmed by a circle of tooth imprints. Tooth imprints, as if he had had to ward off a ravenous animal from attempting to devour him! Shuddering inwardly, she banished all thoughts of what might occur in the privacy of his chambers and pressed onward. "Your ego is both atrocious and wholly unwarranted. Mere association with you is deplorable in its own right; to lay with you would be a fate worse than that reserved for those who reside in the frightful depths of Tartarus."
To her satisfaction, he fell silent as an abandoned catacomb, glancing apprehensively down at the sword aligned with his exposed throat and swallowing hard. Such was the price of his hubris: he had been entirely too engrossed in taunting her to think that he might wind up walking right into such a precarious position. If ever a time came when he was capable of being killed, his impulsivity would be what ultimately brought about his demise. Coward, thought she triumphantly, relishing the sight of him squirming every bit as much as he did her. He does though become so much more tolerable when at the other end of a blade.
Unless giving her most bothersome, useless sibling a healthy dose of much-needed humility, she did not especially care to be at the administering side of one, preferring first to see civil disputes addressed with diplomacy, tact—proof that mortals could rise above their primal instincts. Violence she viewed as a last alternative, something to be avoided altogether if at all possible; that tasteless approach only ever brought about more conflict and strife, casualties along with it, all unnecessary. Needless to say, she tended to have little patience for that aspect of her domain and sought to see things resolved as quickly as possible when such a tumultuous state was inexorable.
And so then entered her vile brother, who had zeal enough towards their Fate-given duties for the both of them, who lived so that he might indiscriminately end lives and send enemies and allies alike on a final ferry ride to the realm of Hades…who collected his wits and came to the realization that he too had in his hand a weapon that served as an extension of his arm.
Raising it sharply upward, he caught the groove of her sword with his own, using the substantial power he had over her to throw her back a pace. There would be no amiable match between the feuding war deities, centuries of bitter rivalry and subsequent loathing forbid it. The duel began in earnest as Athena swiftly regained her footing and lunged forward to meet his advance with a shower of sparks and a resounding clang of metal against metal. With every step, either forward or back, every parry and strike, dust stirred up around them, and a thick cloud soon engulfed their legs. The sun climbed higher into the sky as though to bear witness.
"Perpetual damnation in the blackened heart of the Underworld is comparable—preferable?—to lying with me, is it? Had you the capacity to be as injurious with your blade as you are with your tongue, you would be downright unassailable, assuming of course you refrained from cowering behind your infernal aegis," her adversary spat when his latest blow was forcefully repelled by the emblazoned Gorgon's head, an image that spoke volumes of his sister's hypocrisy. A favored taunt of hers was to accuse him of cowardice, while she had quite the habit of sending her heroes on errands for her—Medusa's severed pate being a prime example, with Perseus, a stray seed spilled from Zeus' ceaselessly dripping loins, going to retrieve it for her. "I have no such crippling dependence upon my equipment."
"So quick to boast of your perceived achievements, yet blinded to your vices," retorted his sister, stepping deftly backwards, leaving his sword to slice through thin air. The strategic workings of her mind matched her evenly with her half-brother's brute strength, but rather than continually engaging him, her intent after the first time their blades clashed was to have him expend all of his energy—energy that would be otherwise used to harass their neighbors—pursuing her. Deflecting his every blow with either her xiphos or the "infernal" aegis, she dodged and weaved skillfully out of striking range, goading him into giving chase. Only a fool would assume that his hulking size impeded his agility; he followed her movements with the speed and precision of a viper.
Just as she predicted, their game of cat-and-mouse began to grate rapidly on his nerves. She could read his mounting irritation on his face: he wanted a challenge, he wanted confrontation, not a foot-quickness drill. Nevertheless, she baited him a hair longer. Coupled with his impatience, that temper of his would be, as it always was when they met in other scenarios, his undoing. He became less the experienced, lethal warrior by the minute and more a child waving his wooden training sword around erratically, hoping that luck would lead him to connect with his opponent's body. Having already exerted his…potency…the night prior and therefore entering the fight not quite at his physical peak (yet another reason reinforcing her decision to remain forever untouched), he was only tiring himself faster with his sporadic swinging—as his latest assault whistled past her, she noted that there was significantly less force thrown behind it, exactly what she had been awaiting.
Her sandals shifted positions in the dirt beneath them, as did her tactics from defensive to offensive. Up flashed her blade, not quite directed at his head (for they had an unspoken agreement that there would be no decapitation attempts since neither wore their helmets), but high enough so that his guard left his torso unprotected, presenting an opportunity for her to ram her aegis into his breastplate with vigor enough to set his teeth rattling in his skull. Not allowing him the chance to catch his breath, the Goddess of Wisdom strode forward with the ferocity of a lioness, her xiphos coming at him relentlessly from all angles and directions, sending him into a retreat as he attempted to one-handedly block everything, now probably sorely missing his shield as he once resorted to using his gauntlet in its place.
"Had you the capacity…" Swing. "…to master your infantile need for gratification…" Swing. "…be it bloodshed or fleshly," she chided him in between a flurry of slashes, driving him further back, "I daresay you would be worthy of respect—or at the very least…not be regarded as a source of shame… to our great father. And yet, you relentlessly …make a spectacle of yourself: all of Olympus has been made aware of… how you yearn for Aphrodite, all laugh knowing that you cannot have her…however desperately you may wish it. Lo, the fearsome God of War…" Swing. "…reduced to a dog salivating…" Swing. "…for a piece of overhanging meat."
…The ears of the aforementioned goddess pricked with interest at the sound of her name. She had not heard the derisive context in which it was used, materializing just seconds ago in the mountaintop courtyard, deeming that her honeymoon—she regrettably saw so little of her husband that it could scarcely be called much of one, though she did get a generous amount of extravagant jewelry as compensation—had reached its end, but figured that it was worth investigating…
Author's Note, Pt. II: As I mentioned before, what you just read was a total rewrite, and I've got to say that it might be my favorite chapter yet. I had so much fun writing both Eris (who was actually inspired by a girl I sometimes see at the gym, really petite with long platinum blonde hair and dark eyes-I'm sure she'd be so proud) and Athena-and how they both antagonize Ares. The fight scene was the second I've ever written, so I hope it turned out well. Speaking of firsts (or seconds), I plan to include some long overdue smut in Chapter 5...which I've never actually done before, but I'm looking forward to.
A Love Like War has gotten a lot more attention lately and I'd like to thank DiizGiirlJess for following and favoriting the story itself and following me as an author, StinkyMuddySocks, annthropologie, Little Girlie Wolf, and Dottie28 for all following and favoriting. I can't begin to describe how much it means to me whenever I see a notification pop up in my email-I keep every single one. I'd also like to thank Ashen of the Mist for yet another wonderful (and perfectly-timed) review.
In response to my reviewer:
Ashen of the Mist: Working as an editor sounds like an absolutely awesome job, getting to read the work of aspiring authors and encouraging them to keep at it-and you do it so well. Thank you for taking the time to leisurely review my work, I regularly reread your comments when I need a boost and it will usually keep me going for days to come. I understood what you meant about the mini-tangents ;) and I'm glad it came through clearly-sometimes I feel like I have a tendency to get ranting. The use of descriptions is actually sort of experimental for me, my older stuff, in my overly-critical opinion, was kind of lacking; I also get overwhelmed whenever I see an endless block of description and tend to start skimming, so I try to limit my scenery to about two-paragraphs' worth per chapter. I just love what words can do though. Again, thank you for another uplifting response. I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. :D
Wishing everyone a safe and happy holiday (assuming that you observe Memorial Day). Until next chapter (which I promise is already under way).
-Impersonating Sugar