Author's Note: Looks at that! I was pretty much right within my 2-3 month deadline...but my editing OCD seems to be getting worse, plus I kept adding in/expanding scenes every time I told myself that I was going to suck up my obsessive behavior and post it that day, and the chapters just seem to be getting longer and longer, and this one is just over 14,000 words. Please let me know if they get to be overwhelmingly long and I can break them up into smaller chapters.
Anyway, part 2 of Hephaestus' revenge, I really do like him, I just seem to like torturing him more. I've tried to stick as close as I could to canon mythology, so those who are familiar with it can probably guess where this is going, but I tried to add a couple of surprises here and there, which means a bit of light mature content, maybe some fluff if you want to call it that between Aphrodite and Hephaestus, and some serious trouble in paradise for Ares and Aphrodite when it's otherwise been some pretty smooth sailing for them. (Funny that up until now, it's been Ares who has been the affectionate one and Hephaestus who has been the vengeful, scheming one. Weird. I guess Aphrodite just has that effect on her men.)
Riddled with guilt at overriding Eileithyia's free will and making her de- and rematerialize alongside him, Hephaestus made a hurried detour to his workshop so that he could craft for her a token to better convey his apologies, for all verbal expressions came across as inadequate—only to find himself upon its completion very nearly late for his meeting with Aphrodite. Haste and sheer uneasiness at the thought of what he was about to do resulted in a wildly sloppy entry when he teleported back to his bed chambers to ensure that the net was in perfect working order, leading to him roughly bump up against a hand-hewn wooden shelf holding various decorative ornaments—all of which were fragile, naturally, considering his poor fortune. Over the sound of his collection of curios shattering upon hitting the floor and his own audible wince when the jagged edges tore at the tops his feet and ankles as they scattered, he heard his name being called, concern evident in the melodious voice speaking it. He had beaten the Goddess of Love here by no more than a second it would seem.
"I am well!" he called out in breathless response, casting a furtive look over at the bed, where he caught sight of the hair-thin gold net winking at him in the sun's light as though sharing his secret and his unease only doubled. Oh, but he wished he had had a few moments uninterrupted to look over it. His invention had been hurriedly constructed by his usual standard and there were sure to be some miscalculations in its design. Suppose the trap did not spring as intended when set by the lovers in action? Not that that would matter much if he was unable to get Aphrodite willingly into his private chambers, and even if he was to, there was no guarantee that Ares would arrive here either. What if he entreated her to revitalize his living space? (Maybe he could then have Hermes deliver to their older brother a message which sounded as if it had been written by the Goddess of Love herself, suggesting he meet her here?) Between the reminder of her presence there in the décor of her choosing—assuming she acquiesced his request—and the impending capture of her and her lover, his private quarters would never be inhabitable again, but it was a small sacrifice to suit a larger purpose.
A bit too flustered to consider another attempt at teleportation, he began to clear a path for himself with the sole of his sandal so that he could approach the bed, only to be forced to drop to a painful crouch and assume the act of gathering up the broken pieces when he heard her soft footfalls approaching his bed chambers—he had done nothing really to assuage her worry as frantically he schemed so of course she took it upon herself to check upon him. Already rattled, his heart kicked up a notch in speed and pounded out a frantic drumbeat against his breastbone at the sight of her here in his private quarters, a place where never before she had ventured though she should have since become…familiar…with it, and a tremor went through his usually skillful, steady hands, which caused the shards he had managed to pick up to slip through his fingers, slicing not only them but also his palms before falling back to the floor and breaking into even tinier pieces.
On the subject of ichor being spilled, his divine blood had earned him some female interest when still he resided solely in the mortal realm, his power as a god enough to compensate for his face apparently, so he was not wholly inexperienced with the opposite sex, but the handful of his human lovers were a pale comparison to Aphrodite, who never failed to take his breath away. And, seemingly enough, today also his ability to articulate any form of sound, for he could only stare rather stupidly up at her until mercifully she broke the oppressive silence. (Out of respect, he tried to stand in acknowledgement of a lady's presence, only to fail miserably at that too, his knees locking in protest after a night spent huddled on the floor of his forge and all the obsequious bowing he had done before Hera).
"You are bleeding," she observed with a faint frown and he looked down at his hands to note vaguely that indeed he was; panic briefly had immunized him to pain. His wife was in his bed chambers, there were more pressing matters to attend to than a little spilled ichor. Still he could make no reply. "I shall fetch a wet cloth for you," she said, only to look uncertainly around the room, nibble at her lip, and sheepishly ask, for, again, there was no logical reason that she would know, seeing as she spent next to no time in what should have become her home too when they had wedded, "Where, ah, is your washroom?" Ever so helpfully, Hephaestus, still conveniently mute, could only jerk his head in its general direction and release a stuttering breath when she set off for it.
"Such a fool you are," he told himself with a furious shake of his head after rising from the floor with difficulty, "the king of fools." What had he been expecting of her honestly, now that she was here in his quarters, to shed her garbs and lay herself upon the bed, inviting him to ravish her? His particularly pitiful display probably had to have 'aroused' her to no end.
He was still soundlessly castigating himself when she reemerged, a damp washrag in tow. Without the faintest trace of apprehension, she marched up to him, took hold of one of the hands that positively dwarfed hers with a gentle but authoritative touch and turned it palm-side up so that she could dab at the fairly minor scratches that had produced no more than a couple of droplets of ichor between them. Unnecessary was her attentiveness, but after going a couple of decades largely without it in the beginning of their marriage, he welcomed her touch, whatever form it might take—it had become an addiction of sorts and been enough to fill him to brimming with false hope, hope being the cruelest gift to have been concealed in Pandora's box of curses.
Except then, a sudden surge of suspiciousness soured the initial sweetness of the gesture; it was odd that she was nowhere near as ill at ease around blood—however little of it there may have been—as he automatically assumed that she would be. The doing of Ares maybe? Perhaps, his brother wooed her with battles fought in her name, which in truth sounded far more romantic in theory than something so common as jewels. Whatever his methods had been, the war god had done what he had not, earned her love, taken her in many an amorous embrace, and Hephaestus bristled, finding himself suddenly quite indignant that she was tending to his insignificant wounds, pretending as though she cared at all for him when Helios had shown him last night just how completely her heart belonged to his elder brother.
He supposed he had always known deep down that there was some form of fondness there, considering how territorial of her Ares had become over the passing years, to the point where, if one did not know better, they might think his brother was her husband, but, frustrating as it could be at times, he had naively discredited it: his wife was too good, too kind to possibly betray him, whereas his oldest brother was a being born of spite.
More roughly than he intended to, he snatched back his hand, immediately after hating himself for being the cause of the rather bewildered and hurt expression to appear on her beautiful face, even though she had brought infinitely more pain to him. "Forgive me," he mumbled, proving that he had no resolve whatsoever when it came to hardening his heart against her, "it stings," came the lie thereafter. Feeble it was, for she did not appear convinced and tilted back her head to accommodate the difference between them in height and regard him quizzically, those violet eyes that had inspired many a bauble searching his for something telling. He dropped his gaze from hers before he could betray himself.
"You are quite certain you are well?" she queried as, unrelenting, she rose to her tiptoes with a dancer's grace and boldly pushed back his hair to better study his face. "Your complexion is extremely pale," she noted finally, a rather kind assessment. "Too many long hours spent in your forge?" The inquiry had her sounding for the first time laughably like a wife. "Some fresh air and time in the sun's light will do wonders for your overall well-being." At the mention of the sun, a muscle worked in Hephaestus' jaw; last night's dealing with the personification of the sun himself had been a hostile exchange, enough for both parties to permanently sever all amicable ties that had once existed betwixt them. Bitterness began to harden his heart as the love-making scenes witnessed by Helios played again before his own eyes. "Shall we partake in a morning meal in the gardens?" she suggested warmly, oblivious to his inner turmoil.
"I thank you, no," said he curtly and took a step back out of the reach of her hand, having had willed away the debris beneath his sandals and the cuts that the broken pieces had caused. Again, she looked taken aback and genuinely upset by his rebuff, and again, damn his good senses, the blacksmith god felt the need to soften the blow he had dealt her. "My apologies for making no mention of it sooner, but I've business in Lemnos that requires my immediate attention and I fear that I must cut our meeting short," he explained, sounding thankfully more like his usual self—well, aside from refusing her, an act in itself that was certain to further arouse her suspicions. "Could I trouble you to ask if, in my absence, you would be so kind as to do some redecorating around my palace? The existing décor has grown dull and I could use the vision that comes from a second pair of eyes."
"But of course, I will do so gladly. And, truly, I admire your devotion to our worshippers," Aphrodite told him with what she hoped to be an approving smile intended to mask her initial look of disappointment. "I wish more of our fellows placed as much importance in serving them, rather than expecting the opposite, as do you. I suppose it might be redundant seeing as you are going forth to Lemnos, but I just so happen to have for you a gift from your sacred isle…"
This was a baffling first-time occurrence, she presenting him with a gift. An attempt at apologizing for her infidelity? If so, he did not want it, whatever it might have been, even if it did originate from Lemnos.
"…Behold," she said with a newfound brightness, conjuring her present to him before he could muddle through his words and make any sort of sufficient protest, "a portable version of the shore for your viewing pleasure." With an uncharacteristically and endearingly shy smile, she held out her offering: a medium-sized jar of glass filled halfway with the tellingly ashen sands of his motherland, topped with lovely shells that appeared to have been judiciously chosen, and finished with the feather of a crane, his sacred bird, that had been tied with twine round the mouth of the vessel. "Compared to yourself, I fear I am not so artistically inclined…and I am aware that it is not very extravagant…but I…I do hope that it pleases you."
Wonder of wonders, she, the Goddess of Love and Beauty, was nervous, actually nervous, and it might have been the most charming sight he had ever seen…and as for the gift itself, centuries had to have passed since he was gifted anything aside from the usual stock left in his temples by mortal supplicants to earn his favor and he had never received anything nearly so thoughtful. For a moment, the sands of time seemed to reverse themselves, as though she had never had an affair. His heart filled and ran over with feelings for her were as pure and true as the day she became his wife, stronger now though because there was an emotional foundation to support those sentiments. This magnificent goddess was attempting to please him.
The words that left his mouth were, "It is simply wonderful; I love it," when instead he was referring to her, and the jar changed hands to be put gingerly in a place of honor upon the shelf that had conveniently been cleared of all objects after he had crashed into it, and, when again he looked back at her, a dazzling smile lit up her face, in part from pleasure at his reception of his gift, in part genuine fondness for him.
It was that smile that was his absolute undoing.
One short stride was all it took to close the distance between them, and, as though some other, far forwarder entity was occupying his body and controlling his movements, he impulsively curled his fingers round the nape of her neck (his hand was massive enough to leave his thumb caressing her jawline) and tilted up her head before his lips descended upon hers. At first, the unexpectedness of it had every muscle in her body tensing like that of a stag caught before a huntsman's bow—much like the first, and only, time they had kissed before, at their wedding—but unlike that night, she did not immediately withdraw…she had not even withdrawn then, she had all but recoiled. She neither rejected him nor reciprocated, merely accepting it, although then her palm pressed against his chest and it seemed she herself was not certain if she wished to pull him closer or push him away.
Hephaestus' behavior this morn had been odd, but this, this was positively abnormal. Never had he seemed to possess nerve enough to have taken the initiative to kiss her, so therefore Aphrodite did not know with surety whether she would have welcomed it and, suffice to say, her mind reeled momentarily with confusion when his lips met hers. After being prompted by Hera to thus seal their union in front of the assembled with a kiss, she had practically leapt back when the deed was done, unable to help herself. She had wanted nothing more than to wipe away the taste of him but had managed to refrain until the reception during which she downed a considerable amount of wine—to suit her purpose and in part also to steel her resolve when came the time to consummate their marriage. The obligatory consummation portion never happened, he being too intimidated by her, and consequently got her situated in a room in his palace intended for guests to sleep before embarking on the morrow for their honeymoon.
He had since maintained that remarkable restraint for several decades to come…right up until now.
His mouth was hard against hers and hot, the fires of his passion ablaze and threatening to engulf her, an inferno fed by desire and flavored with desperation and yearning, a yearning so intense that it began to cloud her judgment—the lust of another being was her intoxicant of choice whereas other immortals might partake of wine or opium derived from poppies. Curiosity grew as her inhibitions shrank away and she permitted herself to yield to him, allowing his tongue to part her lips and delve into her mouth though he had not sought invitation as his fingers threaded through her hair and he further angled her head to better accommodate for the fact that he towered head and shoulders over her. Her hand, which had been initially laid against his chest in an unconscious act of resistance, fisted in the fabric of his peplos, and she found herself inexplicably wanting to get her wings scorched by the flames that she was drawn to, and she tugged him more firmly to her.
For whatever reason, the taut muscle of his chest against her clenched fingers—flesh so hot that even covered by cloth, it made her feel as though her skin had been melded to his—surprised her. Hard muscle and plenty of it, in her mind, hardly suited the soft-spoken and gentle god she had thought him to be, yet there was no trace of that god now as he kissed her with such an appealing aggressiveness. The sensation of quite literally being consumed by a flame had spread to both her lips and down further into her core, boiling her blood and heating her skin to a flush, which surely would be cooled at least somewhat by the removal of her gown. Suppose she were to strip down before him, granting him full access to her feverish body, would he use such impressive musculature to top her, to dominate, or would he revert to his old ways, grow quietly reverential, and treat her body with tenderness and care?
She would know no peace until she had her answer and, with a light hand, administered just a brush of her influence, practically purring into his mouth when tentative fingers traced the outline of her breast and then, when it tightened and peaked, skimmed over the nipple in an almost trancelike state. The sheer awe behind the gesture and the carefulness of it had her trembling with a greater need for more and shamelessly she clutched even more tightly at the fabric twisted in her hand and pushed her bosom forward into his hand so that he could not possibly misinterpret her desires. Except, with an uncertainty that somehow made the act all the more arousing, the massive hand moved up her chest and along her collarbone, catching the sleeve of her dress and pulling it down to bare her shoulder in full but leaving her breast modestly covered—and he dropped his head to lay a trail of kisses as gentle as a breath of smoke, kisses that contrasted wonderfully with the faintest scratch of his beard over the exposed skin.
The thought of the treasure awaiting just below seemed not even to occur to him as he brushed the softest, sweetest kiss against the feminine curve of neck into shoulder and then along the collarbone of her opposite side, more sensuous even than kisses in far more intimate places…until his eyes rose to meet hers, and she noticed not how wideset they were on his face, but how they burned like the fires of his forge, the fires in her blood, and even still managed to be as soft and welcoming as a crackling hearth on a frigid evening, and in those blazing irises was a request that he might be granted permission to continue. In living memory, no male, even the mortal men she used as supplicants, had ever bothered to ask her consent, assuming that once garbs had been shed her body was theirs to touch as they so pleased, and stunned, she could manage only a soft nod, not a goddess at all in the moment, for shock had given way to vulnerability and vulnerability left her feeling dangerously exposed though aside from her shoulder she was otherwise fully clothed.
Once certain he had ensured her permission and not a second sooner, Hephaestus swept back a stray strand of golden hair and, with a softness that contradicted the sheer enormity of his hands and the calloused roughness of them, cradled her face between them and brought their lips together again in a slow, careful manner that could only be described as apologetically for the earlier force he had used. Aphrodite though needed no apology for the forcefulness; quite contrarily she had welcomed it. Not only was it immensely appealing to know that her desirability could convert a relatively meek god into a lustful aggressor, it was what she had become accustomed to, being worshipped as a goddess, reigning in the bedroom as a powerful deity, the familiarity and predictability a perfectly choreographed dance that she could perform with safety and ease, whereas being stripped of her defenses and seen by another's eyes as a woman, as fragile and subject to hurt as any mortal counterpart, made her highly fearful.
This form of intimacy she had not even allowed Ares.
She supposed it was her own cowardice that had her assuming control of the kiss with practiced ease, trying to bring about his return to an unthinking, amorous frenzy.
Hephaestus expelled a gasp that had nothing to do with pleasure when her teeth closed sharply on and then punctured clean through his bottom lip. Prodding the hole left gingerly with his tongue, tasting the pungently metallic tang of his own ichor, he took a stumbling step back away from her, the distance between them not near far enough as he returned from his fanciful delusion that she might one day—today possibly even being the start of the rest of their lives—grow to love him as his wife to the nightmarish reality where she was so 'devoted' to him that she had taken his brother as a lover. (He had his older sibling to thank for the piece now missing from his lip. Athena had once scoffed that Ares was incapable of differentiating between a consort and a confection to be devoured. If the pride he had at displaying the near perfect imprints of his lovers' teeth around his throat—and on his shoulder when the weather was warmer and less clothing was required—was any indicator, he likewise had to relish leaving his own, making the Goddess of Love also a follower of the perverse practice.)
His heartbeat pounding in his ears very nearly drowned out Aphrodite's aggrieved apology of "Please forgive me; I have not the faintest idea of what came over me…" By that did she mean mutilating his mouth, or returning his kiss to begin with? He would never know, was not certain he wished to. "It was not my intention to do you harm." She might even have looked contrite, but his vision tunneled until he could see nothing except wide eyes with rose-gold irises staring beseechingly up at him. Rose-gold, as though she and Ares had somehow merged their very essences, something practically unheard amongst gods. But of course, she had not intended to do him harm, thinking that she could keep her affair a secret.
"I…must go to Lemnos."
Before she could even react, he was engulfed in a thick cloud of black smoke and there with her no longer. That was when the panic set in—the deadness in his tone and in his eyes were akin to the shadowed remains of a mortal spirit residing in the Underworld and she knew instinctively that she had been the cause of an anguish so great that he had been reduced to an utterly broken shell of himself. And then she was running, flying, towards his washroom to confirm her suspicions were untrue, skidding on the tile slick from droplets running off the washrag that she had fetched for him, crashing into the counter, her hands slamming down hard against the tops and clenching round the edges in a desperate attempt to remain standing even as her feet continued to slip and slide. As finally she caught her balance and clawed her way upright, she glimpsed herself in the mirror and, for the first time in her existence, looked upon her reflection in horror, covering her mouth to suppress a sharp intake of breath, for instead of being their usual magenta (an unintended side effect of her arousal, and somewhat embarrassingly, Hephaestus' attentions had been pleasing enough to warrant the change in coloration), her eyes glowed the same shade as Ares' had with the exploration of each other's auras last night—a bright and unmistakably pink-tinged gold that, while breathtaking in the war god's adoring gaze, had undeniably just revealed to her husband their affair, or at least provided him with some very interesting insight into the life she lived without his knowing.
No longer could her extramarital trysts be kept a secret, it would seem, for Ares had taught her early on that gossip was practically the currency used by the residents of the Olympian mount and it went without saying that he would discover the unpleasant truth soon enough. For now, at least, she was still Hephaestus' wife and still potentially perceived to be a confidant, a position that gave her the ability to reach his ears first and reveal to him her version of events, effectively minimizing the extent of the damage done to their relationship and to her reputation in the courts. She was not near so selfless as to pretend that the matter was not of equal concern to her; to be seen as an adulteress would mark her ruination: her domain henceforth mocked by all, if not viewed as purposeless, cause enough—along with having accrued the wrath of Hera who had made no secret of her desire to see the younger goddess suffer—to have her stripped of her seat on the council…long before her arrival, the preexisting eleven had sufficiently run the world.
It was for that specific reason that any mention of the war god would be omitted entirely, his name alone being dangerously incendiary to the brother who despised him. A different culprit would be woven into the tale to take his place as her lover, one with whom the master smith had no otherwise adverse associations to ensure herself a better chance at his forgiveness, preferably of high social standing (a goddess of rank would not often choose a partner she felt to be inferior to herself, though the gods were decidedly less discerning, easily pleased by pretty faces and sizable breasts), and ideally possessing eyes that glowed golden with his divine power, which would account for the hopefully temporary change in the hue of her own.
Did such an elusive Olympian even exist?
Just then, the name of her sacrificial lamb came mercifully to her: Hermes. The youthful messenger fitted her criteria to perfection—a fellow member of the Dodekatheon who got on well with almost every other immortal, with the gold of his winged sandals and staff echoing in his irises. As the Fates would have it, conveniently they had passed a night together intimately acquainting themselves. Her doing so incidentally enough had made him the first of many further paramours she would take before entering into a quasi-monogamous union with Ares; if asked, or possibly even confronted, Hermes' corroboration would provide a degree of truth to her tale. Although there was one complication that she had not foreseen:
"I did not realize that my homecoming was to be spent competing with that lowly cripple for your affections," came a cold voice as the God of War materialized behind her in the mirror, looking surly even by his usual standards, sleep-rumpled, and yet rather laughably like a petulant child when, with a black scowl, he folded his arms to further convey his displeasure and the offense he had taken at her stealing away from his bed while he slept in order to meet with his useless younger brother.
Expelling an exasperated breath, the Goddess of Love raised her traitorously-colored eyes skyward in a bid for patience, lest she rid him of his thick head. How she wished that his inopportune intrusion came as some sort of surprise to her—but given the delicacy of the current circumstances and the finesse it would require in which to diffuse the situation, it was only natural that as of today, when she needed him most not to be his usual tempestuous self, he had reached the decision that he was through 'competing' with Hephaestus, having had exhausted the last of his patience with the arrangement.
It was nothing short of astonishing that he had contained himself for long as he had—he was rather like a volcano in that sense, molten rage boiling within him until finally it could be contained no longer and exploded forth, destroying everything in its path. With every passing decade, his envy at not having her exclusively to himself had only grown, festered, until finally it had started to manifest itself in his actions, moving beyond vocalizing his vexation behind closed doors and into the public had begun harmlessly enough, though perhaps not in the minds of the lesser gods who approached her with interest at a number of galas, only to scatter to the winds like frightened birds with a single, menacing scowl from Ares. Hephaestus too was on the receiving end of many a murderous glare (being the source of it, after all) but memories of their last clash, during which he was assailed by a whirlwind of wickedly sharp metallic shards, served to keep the war god from again engaging him in combat. That being said though, he still managed to find a way to spite his brother and claim his wife for himself, as a dance partner at every lavish event that followed…all relatively innocuous, allowing for no one to accuse them correctly of being lovers, albeit an irritant to the blacksmith god.
…Except the God of War's possessive behavior escaladed with alarming alacrity and took a worrisome turn when he altogether stopped caring about keeping their affair concealed, the latest social gathering held on Olympus being proof of that. Wine had been flowing in an abundance that evening, the drink being one of a number of his vices, and, plied steadily by Dionysus (who always reveled silently in the chaos his eldest brother created when sufficiently intoxicated), he had consumed a great deal more than was wise. Dionysus was not to be disappointed with the aftermath: envy at seeing Aphrodite on Hephaestus' arm gave itself over to both rage and raging lust in Ares' addled mind—it was with good reason that he was so bitterly resentful of Hephaestus, the latter having an irresistibly beautiful wife, an unwilling wife, whereas she had come readily to him as his lover—and lust warped itself into a desperate need to remind her that it was he to whom she belonged, hear her breathlessly utter those words he craved in agreement.
What had occurred then was a reenactment of their first encounter on the Goddess of Love and her unfortunate bridegroom's wedding night: the war god stealing a dance, then guiding her away from the dance-floor to a location free of prying eyes (she suggesting laughingly that he could use a sobering breath or two of the crisp evening air, for there were several times that he had trod quite hard upon her toes, lacking every bit of his usual effortless grace), before descending upon her like a hawk upon a field mouse and kissing her sloppily and so ravenously that there was little enjoyment to be found in the pain of it. Unlike the last time that they had adjoined in such a fashion, his "attack" was far from being welcomed, leaving them subject to being stumbled upon by another reveler who might entertain the same sort of ideas and come to this very place with their own "dance partner" to act upon them and very real consequences should they be discovered, consequences that had not previously existed when still she was a newcomer to the peak. Even to the eye of an inebriated spectator, there would be no mistaking the sight of a married goddess in the arms of a man who was quite obviously not her husband, theirs being two of the most recognizable faces in the high court.
Thinking quickly as he fumbled to rid her of her gown, sheer determination making up for his otherwise clumsy, unsuccessful endeavors to do so, she called forth her influence, using it for the rare purpose of reducing the ferocity of his desire—and thankfully even seeming to minutely diminish his drunken haze with it, for lust and madness from the drink appeared to be interwoven forces, something to be explored for certain at a different time—to a level that was manageable enough for her to extradite herself none-too-gently from his oppressive grasp, magically tidied. Chastising him sharply for his reckless behavior though seemed only to again heighten his emotional state to its default setting of anger as, glassy-eyed and swaying slightly where he stood, he watched her mouth move uncomprehendingly, and she heaved a resigned sigh, placing a hand to chest, directly over his heart, and her lips to his in a chaste kiss that he did not return, not needing to be coherent to be embittered by her perceived rejection.
"I must return to my husband's side to maintain our façade, that is my burden. I have to keep up appearances so that I can keep you. You know that it is you whom l love," she said as though that were enough to accommodate for the fact that he had been jilted, he who was never before refused by a woman, and he removed himself in outrage from the situation in a manner most befitting both a war god and a son of immortal royalty, dematerializing from the middle of the ballroom (having returned there sullenly to drink more wine and rid himself of all memories of the evening, namely the humiliation he felt, worse even than that which he had experienced at the hands of his female counterpart in combat) with all the force and fury of a thunderbolt striking the earth, shattering crystal and extinguishing candles.
The following morning, he had awakened in one of his temples in the mortal realm, the furniture flipped over and all but destroyed, he himself sprawled uncomfortably across a chaise that had managed somehow to survive his furious rampage against the décor, with no recollection of how he had gotten there (save for bits and pieces of a dialogue with Dionysus who commiserated by offering him still another drink, ironic that his night had both started and concluded in the company of the God of Wine), a dry mouth, and a pounding in his head so severe that it was as though another variant of Athena was trying to free herself from the confines of his skull. The very moment his sickness from his over consumption had passed, he vowed he would sever and mount the youngest of his divine brothers' head upon his spear for afflicting him so, but at present he could not muster the strength to even move from where he lay. So there it was that he remained, wishing in between bouts of fitful dozing that Aphrodite might come tend to him, longingly imagining the feel of her fingers running through his hair.
Not too much later in the day, the love goddess did indeed visit his palace, bringing with her a concoction of Apollo's that she said was to ameliorate his adverse conditions, some simple but supposedly filling mortal fare to ease his roiling stomach, and diluted nectar, although otherwise, it was not an especially pleasant encounter for either, both still angered by their lover's behavior, his seen through her eyes as shameful, hers (which had remained in his memory with an irritating clarity when little else did) frigid.
Wounded pride forbade him from making any further attempts at trying to physically claim in her the presence of others (his lingering resentment interfering also with several subsequent moments of attempted intimacy, forcing her to be especially persuasive), but there were since other equally explosive exits when his jealous rage got the better of him, a handful of those destructive tantrums of his occurring during in the midst of a Dodekatheon meeting, triggered merely by the sight of Aphrodite seated in the throne adjacent to Hephaestus' in the semicircle layout, her apparent place as his wife. And that was when he was not acting as the self-appointed 'guardian' of her throne, the exact same sort of territorial behavior shown by Apollo towards his twin sister Artemis—although thankfully not yet taking up a permanent perch atop an intricately-carved armrest as had the sun god but rather lingering there for entirely too long to be considered the sort of casual intermingling done commonly before their king would call the meeting to order. Directly before he embarked for his latest battle, one last council had been held, during which he never strayed from his position alongside her seat to assume his own, loudly striking the largest and most lethal-looking knife in his collection against a whetting stone through the entire dialogue, viciously enough to send sparks flying with his every stroke, his message clear to all: She is mine, touch her and my blade shall rearrange your innards.
Strangely enough, none of the other gods seemed to give the matter any thought, all accustomed to his shift from an Olympian courtesan, unrefined be he may, into something utterly feral, more a predatory beast than a god, hungry for flesh, hungry for blood, in the days leading up to a war—all the better for them that he had affixed himself to her. All talk of proper conduct in warfare, any semblance of a council meeting at all, was derailed when Hephaestus, in an uncharacteristic fit of annoyance, caused his brother's knife to soften like clay and wilt comically as if it was a flower during a dry spell, leading Hermes to gleefully ask if it was indicative of Ares' 'performance' in other 'arenas'—only to have a brand new, fatally sharp blade hurled at his head. The blade was shot midflight from the air by an arrow from Apollo, his bow then turned on the God of War who looked like he was just itching to retaliate ("Before you do anything drastic," the former warned the latter coldly, aiming directly between his eyes, "you would do well to remember that I never miss my mark."); Artemis followed suit, and Athena after when the instigator summoned his spear ("But which will find its mark first, your arrow or my spear?"). Hephaestus—and Aphrodite herself for that matter—was forgotten about, the married pair exchanging a glance as Athena commanded Ares' attention, the two squaring off as though already facing each other on the battlefield.
All the while Hermes was theatrically and loudly bemoaning how his centuries-long life had flashed before his eyes, mostly for the entertainment of Apollo, who still remained armed and alert, and Dionysus, who, true to form, continued to silently observe, using his influence to subtly escalade things (Athena normally had more propriety than to arm herself at a council meeting) although the older generation was less than amused by their antics as a whole.
"Behold, my husband's bastards in all of their glory," muttered a disgusted Hera to Demeter, simply because the latter was a listening ear.
"And the atrocity you have borne at the heart of the conflict," sniffed the Goddess of the Harvest, certain that she had made a wise decision in never letting her precious Kore meet her far-too-over-powered-to-be-so-unruly older half-siblings.
While his sisters appeared unimpressed, the almighty king delighted in the chaos singlehandedly created by his offspring, but could not properly watch because Poseidon, himself a living, breathing embodiment of personified sibling rivalry, turned to him with a contemptuous expression, scoffing, "Half the cosmos are ruled by children who do not know better than to bring their toys to the supper table."
It was grudgingly that the king of the heavens directed a thunderbolt to fall at the feet of his favorite daughter, who stoically accepted the call for a ceasefire, and most loathed son, who jumped back with a yelp that was not especially fear-inspiring, and vanished after fixing him and his sister both with a murderous glare.
By the day of Ares' return, the incident was almost gone from Aphrodite's mind, too grateful, too relieved, was she to have him home and in her embrace, beneath her, atop her, to again be held in his arms—although the knowledge that, like herself, he was deathless provided some initial comfort, she feared often, as would any woman whose beloved was a soldier, that there would come a time when he did not return to her. Now though, his coming to the palace of Hephaestus, of which he had no place or purpose in being—and really, had he sustained a blow to the head whilst in battle and thus lost his senses completely—served as a reminder of the overbearingness that she no longer found to be quite so endearing.
She forced herself to relax her tensed posture and vigorously projected an aura of serenity meant as much for her own sake as his, so that she would not further exacerbate the situation by telling him that he was acting a fool, before turning around to face him.
"First and foremost, I have told you countless times not to refer to him by that awful address; his name is Hephaestus and whether you take kindly to the fact or not, he is my husband." The phrase had his lip curling murderously and gold washing away all traces of rose in his smoldering gaze, but she pressed on mildly as she could though she would have liked nothing more than to grab his broad shoulders and shake him until he saw reason. (For the sake of ease, she had misled Ares into believing that each time she met with Hephaestus, it was strictly out of obligation; had the war god known otherwise that their visits were actually very much a source of enjoyment, his outrage would have resulted in a most unpleasant scene, ousting them to the high court as lovers long before the first year of the first decade of their affair was through.) "And he has suspicions that I have forsaken my marital vows by taking a lover…"
"…How incredibly astute of him," the God of War interjected with a sneer, his aggressive aura colliding with her projection of calm. "Half a century has passed since our first intimate encounter and only now he suspects you of infidelity? Truly the cripple surpasses our filthy half-blood sister in his infinite wisdom; if he is clever as you think him to be, in another century's time he may actually come to have the slightest inkling of an idea as to whom you have taken in your bed…and in still another hundred years, he might come to understand why it was necessary for you to take a lover in his stead: looking upon his countenance is offense enough without having to endure also his gross negligence."
"Never you worry, I am not neglected by him."
"While you are here, playing the role of dutiful wife,where, pray tell, is he?" he challenged triumphantly.
"Business has taken my husband to Lemnos. He is beloved by our worshippers and therefore called upon often," she countered, satisfied when his smug expression warped as his mouth twisted as though he had taken a swill of vinegar, satisfied with herself for neither raising her voice nor sharpening her tone into a metaphorical blade meant to inflict injury. His energy beckoned to her more strongly than ever it had before, perhaps because she had wielded it only last night—in its entirety—as though it were her own life force.
"Pitiful," he spat contemptuously. "The Goddess of Love herself pays a visit to his palace, the dearest wish of many of our fellows, and the spineless cur flees before her, using his craft as an excuse to retreat into the bowels of the earth like the worm he is. Such great pride it must bring you to have a husband who is every bit as cowardly as he is hideous."
"No more than having a lover who is so threatened by my marriage that he must wage war against a cripple to feel a sense of fulfillment." The same appellation used by Ares to refer to Hephaestus sounded wrong to her ears as it fell from her mouth, ugly and so full of hate, unbecoming of a goddess whose gift was love, but she was slipping, succumbing, to the war god's influence as it crashed over her like waves meeting the shore, starting her transformation into the infrequently seen divinity who was capable of cursing Nerites, her first love, of threatening Heracles' life to ensure that Hebe not breathe a word of her affair, of holding her own against the God of War himself in verbal combat, he often being the first to lower his raised hackles, driven to distraction as lust and fury combined potently. (What made her so susceptible to his influence was that she was every bit as capable of cruelty as he, though undeniably better at concealing it.)
"That miserable wretch poses no threat to me, for already I have emerged victorious." His eyes had grown unnaturally, unnervingly bright, his teeth were bared in a snarl, and his hands fisted at his side as though poised to flex and call a weapon to his service and engage her in battle. "It was by pure happenstance that he took you as his wife, but for half a century it has been my bed to which you have returned, my name that you have yelled in the throes of ecstasy for all the heavens to hear."
With a feigned sense of contemplation, Aphrodite cocked her head and lightly tapped her lips with her index finger as though passing a moment in thought before dropping her hand and retorting in a cutting voice that spectacularly contradicted her play at innocence, "Were you truly so confident in your physical prowess securing my affections, you would not have felt the compulsive need to stand guard of my throne for five decades' worth of council meetings, placing yourself, might I note, directly between myself and Hephaestus, which suggests very much that you think him capable of stealing me away. Perhaps I will make an allowance that he may do so, for unlike yourself, he has never shown me anything but the utmost respect and reverence, and I am certain that his reverential ways would translate in his lovemaking abilities."
For a split second, Ares looked completely taken aback, his brows raising abruptly and his irises returning to their natural, but uncommonly displayed, brown as his eyes widened—Aphrodite had refused him once in favor of his younger brother and his ego had never fully healed from the degradation, the first blow it had ever taken; it sickened him to think that so easily she could consider exchanging him for a lesser being—except just as quickly he moved past the shock and returned again to the offense.
"If he so much as lays a finger upon you, I will destroy him," he snarled, an almost inhuman quality to his voice, and the love goddess had no doubt that he would do so; the thought should not have thrilled her as much as it did, her lover razing the heavens, soaking the earth with divine blood, especially seeing as the intended victim was none other than her husband. Despite the fondness, love even, that she had for Hephaestus, there was no place to be had for both sons of Hera to exist simultaneously in her heart at once; right now, locked in combat with him, there was only Ares…there would only ever be Ares. Her lover, her chosen life-mate, her very soul's mate, their essences interwoven inexorably by the Fates.
"I do not take kindly to others thinking themselves deserving of that which is mine."
And there again was proof that he had no ability whatsoever to distinguish between their bedroom games of dominance and possession, and reality, thus breaking the enchantment of his deadly decree and reigniting the fires or her ire. (She accredited the momentary jolt of excitement to his influence affecting her, calling forth hers to meet it and play, further adding to the emotional maelstrom.)
"I have had enough of your illusions of ownership!" Her words were punctuated by a resounding slap of her palm against the countertop, the action making her entire hand sting, but she refused to attend to it, lest it diminish her ferocity—especially if she was to have him grasp the concept of what she said next. "What you fail spectacularly to realize is that I am a goddess, no man's prize nor plaything, no more yours than I am his."
"Except readily you refer to him as your husband and feel compelled no matter the occasion to remind me, every other inhabitant of Olympus, and even yourself, that you are his wife and, as such, consequently chained to him. That is what his title is, a slave's collar, only unlike the common slave, he bedecks you in jewels and other such finery." Speaking of such, he noted hazily that her neck was cleared of his marks and how very much he would like to again cover it…take her here…in the cripple's palace…which should have become her place of residency upon her marriage to him. Yet desire her though he did, always, as had he no other, his deeper, most primal instincts had him wanting to eviscerate her in combat. "Far are you from being the great and self-reliant goddess that you proclaim yourself to be; you are nothing more than a bondwoman to the most pathetic creature in any of the world's realms—making you by default the second-most."
"In case your envy has made you short-sighted, allow me to once again attempt to get the fact through your thick skull that we are both members of the highest Olympian council, our positions of power placing the eyes of all upon us. Therefore, one of us must act in accordance to our role and you are far too much an empty-headed, churlish brute to possibly be capable of doing so…" A brute capable of dominating her in the bedroom, bruising her, leaving her hungering for more.
"So then, your behavior is governed by your all-encompassing preoccupation with appearances. Vain, frivolous thing that you are, I find that utterly unsurprising. Has your jailer any knowledge of the pains that must endure all for the sake of keeping your façade of wedded bliss in place?"
"I do what I must. I am the Goddess of Love, I cannot afford to be perceived by our fellows to be an adulteress lest my domain be forever after met with ridicule, its purpose and importance questioned by all." To no other god would she have dared to admit the shameful half-truth; Ares had never been repelled by her less…lovable…traits, all the more charmed he became actually the less conventionally charming she grew, although he chose this opportunity to incorporate it into a taunt.
"Here I thought your commitment to preserving the secrecy of our affair was to spare the fragile emotions of the abomination that you call a husband, when in truth your intentions are to save your own hide from the scrutiny of those decidedly beneath yourself. Be grateful that you are beautiful; your pleasing features serve to prevent my wretch brother from seeing you as you are in actuality—he would revile you if ever he were to learn of your true nature and the extent of your self-serving ways. Perhaps not a butcher by birth, but nevertheless, you would spill the blood of any who opposed you. All of Olympus would despise you were they ever to view your similarities to myself," he assured her, sounding entirely too pleased with the prospect.
"Guilt by association being the case, I would be wise then to rid myself of you completely." Too breathy had her tone grown to come across as a proper threat.
"You may try your best then to escape me, but you will never be rid of me," he vowed, his tone also better suited for a bedroom setting, having grown huskier. "I will chase you to the edges of the earth, across every one of its realms, this I swear on the River Styx."
Identical, smoldering gazes of rose-gold met and held, clashed in an unspoken battle of wills, the windows into the identical souls of ruthless, lustful beings. Neither could be certain who it was that had initiated the contact, but, like their auras meeting on a spiritual plane, the opposing forces collided on the physical realm, freeing the other of their garbs as they met in an embrace. Hands scrabbling over bared skin. Tongues tangling in a further attempt at dominance. Bodies adjoining as her love-slave set his war-prize atop the counter. Hips rutting. Harsh panting. Hungry moans escaping despite their efforts to contain them.
Not their usual bout of lovemaking, where they savored, cherished, each other, but a product of long repressed resentment and a victory to be had.
The cool marble turning suddenly to fabric, sheets, a bed. Tumbling across the mattress, the sounds accompanying their romp increasing in volume.
Shouts of horror cut off the vocalizations of pleasure as the hair-thin net fast held them.
From the next room over, the master smith released his curled fingers from between his teeth, having bitten down upon them to keep himself from crying out in anguish as his spirit shattered anew over the cruelest comments that had been made during the exchange, all incidentally coming from the mouth of Aphrodite—he knew of his brother's thoughts of him and could not bring himself to be bothered by the elder god's low opinion, his own much the same. But Aphrodite… For Khaos' sake, he had just exemplified his idiocy by throwing his inhibitions to the wind and kissing her as he had longed to for five decades, with a passion encompassing his entire being, offering his heart to her on a silver platter, and she reciprocated by admitting openly to her beloved that her masquerade as his adoring wife had been nothing more than a farce to better ensure that their affair remain a secret, to keep herself viewed in a positive light. Difficult as it had been to learn from Helios that it was he who was the interloper in his own marriage, Hephaestus had clung to the miniscule hope that, if nothing else, the close friendship he had built with…his brother's mistress… for never had she been his, had been genuine.
There was no more ingenuine immortal in all of existence than the alleged Goddess of Love. To echo the words of the war god, her beauty had been a blindfold, and unseeingly he had permitted himself to be lead by her like a horse from a burning barn wherever she saw fit, walking directly into her charade of sweetness and benevolence as though it were a wall of marble, when concealed all along beneath the radiant features was a vain, vindictive, vicious vixen. His fool heart would not allow him to revile her—as Ares predicted he would if ever his eyes were opened to her true ways—but gave him no constraints in regarding her with absolute distaste, deciding then and there that the God of War could have her as his life-mate, opting to generously leave the adulterous pair trapped in his net so that they might enjoy their time together…
…or come to despise the other after being imprisoned in a compromising position, nude, cramped, and inescapably bound, for hours on end; no longer were her doings of any concern to him.
As for Hephaestus himself, he went forth to Lemnos.
The remainder of his day was spent pensively sitting atop a rock overlooking the sea, staring out at the horizon as though it held the answers to all the world's questions, among deeper, more introspective ones, the gulls and their mournful cries his only companions, and he welcomed the solitude. Alone, it was how he was destined to be, how he would be again when he found the initiative to bring his captives to the heavenly queen, but it was the sense of finality that had him still dragging his feet—and an immensely strong disinclination to see his birth giver. However, as day turned to evening, his self-imposed isolation came to an end, for, as though the very thought of Hera served as a summons, Hermes dropped from the sky to hover at his side.
"Good evening to you, brother," he greeted cheerily, pleased that he had found at least one of the second generation of Dodekatheon comembers with relative ease (Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, and Athena all wandered throughout the mortal realm; Ares and Aphrodite both seemed to have vanished from existence without a trace), although his bright, boyish grin faltered when the elder god broke his staring match with the line where sky met sea and looked up at him, not because he was repulsed by his half-brother's visage—after all, he had regular encounters with chthonic deities whose appearances were far more unsettling—but because of the sorrow that had been etched in his every feature before annoyance hardened his countenance. "You look as though you have just stumbled upon your wife in your bed with another man…" he offered in jest, attempting to lighten the master smith's spirits. Had he only the faintest idea of the accuracy of his statement.
"Have you a legitimate purpose for coming other than to serve as a source of vexation?" Hephaestus snapped, making his younger sibling start at the unexpected sharpness of his tone and rudeness of his words and nearly fall from the air.
Managing to right himself and gliding out of striking range, a habit learned from his dealings with Ares who was known to swat at him as though he were a bothersome fly or throw a dagger, Hermes made a show of straightening and smoothing his rumpled peplos, and squared his shoulders. "I come on behalf of our king and queen," he explained a touch more crisply. Hardly was it his fault that Hephaestus was oversensitive and lacking a sense of humor, although it certainly made the Goddess of Love's eagerness to escape him, champing at the bit to do so on the very first night of their honeymoon no less, understandable. "To mark their one thousandth anniversary, they have chosen to renew their wedding vows before the Fates and all are required to pay homage."
"All…are required to pay homage?" the blacksmith god repeated slowly, as, much like the net he had constructed to capture the lovers, the seed of an idea came on its own accord to his mind and aggressively took root. He had just been presented an opportunity to further shame Ares and Aphrodite, make known her infidelity to every single resident of the Olympian peak, after she had gone to such great lengths and pains to prevent the very thing from happening, besting Ares when the war god was seen by all as the superior, while also mortifying the queen of the skies at an event held in her honor. Wincing faintly, he pushed himself to the edge of the rock and stood. "I've a gift that will be unforgotten for another thousand years."
Seconds after the net covered them, the entire argument that Aphrodite had had with Ares played before her eyes as it had been perceived by Hephaestus, who, as it turned out, had not been truthful about departing for Lemnos—waiting for his trap to spring undoubtedly—his hidden position causing him to hear every awful word spoken against him, hear them coupling, the realization making her wonder if an immortal could somehow die of sheer embarrassment. Pain, his pain and heartache now hers, sliced through her chest, dissolving her world into blackness with its intensity, although it was panic that revived her. Her supposedly besotted husband had just caught her and her lover in the act, and in a net; he had deliberately made a trap of his bed as though anticipating this very thing would occur, revealing something all the more distressing: he was as willing to punish her for her misdeeds as had he been his estranged mother. Her hand in marriage had been the price for Hera's release and she shuddered to think what the cost might be to escape her own imprisonment. A vengeful blacksmith god made his brother by comparison seem like a lap-dog.
While she was wracked with a mix of agony and fear of the impending consequences, their present situation seemed to amuse the half-wit who had gotten them into this awful predicament, having teleported them from the wash-room to lay upon what was supposed to be her marital bed, the delicious irony at claiming her there when his younger sibling had been incapable of doing so proving to be entirely too much of a temptation for the impulsive God of War to resist. "The cripple cannot lure a woman to his chambers, so he must resort to capturing them," he remarked, attempting to sound cavalier, but there was a strained quality to his voice and she could practically feel the beat of his heart quickening to match hers. His unease apparent now, he added, "He is your husband; how do you propose we get out of here?"
"I…I am not certain that we are getting out of here until Hephaestus decides it so," she answered weakly, recalling in finer detail the circumstances that had lead up to her betrothal, she being a bartering chip so that Hera would be released from the throne that held her, its maker alone capable of doing that in which no other had succeeded—and also one of Hebe's tales way back at the start of her relationship with both the older son and younger daughter of the king and queen of the heavens: over several bottles of wine, the Goddess of Youth told her laughingly of the war god's long-standing phobia of confined spaces that restricted his range of movement. (Many, many years ago, when still she lived as an oceanic dweller, twin giants, dually known as the Aloadae, had decided themselves superior to the Olympians and tried to assume control of their place of residence, taking a younger and even more headstrong Ares prisoner in a preliminary battle, and leaving him, wounded badly, to rot away in an impossibly small cell for thirteen months, during which he had come perilously close to being stripped of both his immortality and his very life force.) Suffice to say, he did not find much reassurance in her assessment of things.
"You surely overestimate him," scoffed he, but, for a change, it was not so much a jibe at his brother as it seemed to be him trying to convince himself that he was not hopelessly ensnared in a painfully cramped net, and attempted to fade away into smoke. One failed effort did not dissuade him, although a second had him growing unnerved, and by the third, because he simply did not learn from his failures, a mild form of hysteria had set in. He switched next, seeing as he was not getting out, to trying his hand at summoning a weapon in to the cut through the thin gold fibers; when left empty-handed, he resorted to tugging fruitlessly at the deceptively delicate-looking stands as if that might serve to stretch them.
In the hours that followed as he fought tooth and nail to escape Hephaestus' trap, throwing himself across the bed and testing for any possible point of weakness, it was a wonder that an already-aching Aphrodite did not get struck by a thrashing limb—yet her hair did get pulled fiercely during his struggles. Eventually, and with great difficulty, she was able to secure her long, tangled locks in a knot and inch herself further up the bed and out of harm's way, because, while imprisoned physically in the net with her, Ares' frenzied mind was far from her reach and he proved himself incapable of being calmed, impatiently shaking off her gentle touches, and outright ignoring her reassuring words that there was no impending doom awaiting them, that she would be capable of persuading Hephaestus to release them, in favor of the far more 'effective' method of fighting against the net. She was almost grateful when reprieve from what had undeniably become the singular worst day of her existence came in the form of her husband stepping forth from the far side of the room in a telling cloud of dark smoke.
His appearance caused the war god, who had finally, finally accepted defeat, at least for the time being, letting himself fall back onto the mattress with a soft thump, dripping with sweat and panting harshly from a mixture of what had become absolute terror (nothing compared to the blinding despair it would have spiraled down into was she not there with him and unthinkingly he had extended his arm, sweeping over the coverlet until his fingers brushed the skin of her leg—he being towards the bottom of the bed, she fleeing more towards the top—and he then absently ran his knuckles fore and back over the silken flesh as he struggled to catch his breath) and his all-day-long exertion in pursuit of liberty, to spring upright and attack the net with a renewed ferocity, swearing that he would tear the younger god limb from limb starting with useless legs, spill his innards and every drop of ichor that filled his veins, and leave his entrails to be devoured by vultures. Just the incentive his brother needed to set them free.
"And you plan to accomplish this all the while unclothed, unarmed, and still entangled in a net with my wife, do you?" Hephaestus stated dryly as the aforementioned goddess cringed and attempted to make herself appear smaller, not ashamed in the slightest of her nudity, but rather that he was witnessing her infidelity with his own two eyes, although his elder brother currently commanded his attention. "That is a sight I would very much like to see."
The mention of his being weaponless seemed to aid the God of War in returning to his senses; a battle could not be fought, let alone won, without first having the proper armaments. As the cripple had pointed out, he may have been bare-skinned and held captive, but he was not defenseless, deciding suddenly that the Goddess of Love made as good a weapon as any in his arsenal to wield against the master smith, thus giving him the upper hand.
"Funnily enough, your wife seems to find being ensnared in your trap with me preferable to fulfilling her obligations as your spouse," retorted Ares, rocking back onto his haunches, turning slightly, and dropping a territorial hand upon Aphrodite's lower leg, nothing remotely tender in his caress. His grip tightened when, wanting no part in the feud between the sons of Hera, she tried to jerk herself free with a welcome resurgence of strength, although alas, her lover's strength surpassed her own as always it had, fingers closing, vicelike, round her ankle. Yelping as he tugged, hard enough that it was almost as it were she whom he intended to tear limb from limb, she was dragged from her position of relative safety, down the mattress to all but straddle him.
No evidence was there of any kind of arousal whatsoever in his lap, but his intent was clear.
If he thought he was going to ever mount her again, and in front of Hephaestus no less, he was grievously mistaken.
Reaching the threshold of her tolerance for being mistaken as his possession and mishandled, Aphrodite pushed against his chest and scrambled backwards in an ungainly, crab-like scuttle, before going to her knees, seizing hold of the aggressive influence that had been pouring forth from him—feeling his aura blend with a seamless familiarity into hers, with it his physical might too, which she had hoped to acquire when doing so, wanting to hurt him—and winding back her arm as though poised to throw a discus and bringing it rapidly forward to slap him soundly across the face. Caught completely unaware by the sheer amount of power behind the blow, his hold on her ankle broke as his entire torso twisted in the same direction that his face had turned, light and color exploding in front of his eyes, and he flung out a balancing hand on reflex, lest he go sprawling.
Head bowed as his vision cleared and gripping the sheets, Ares tried to reorient himself as a jolt of throbbing pain mingled with an otherwise muddle of emotions, each clamoring for prevalence—shock at having been stricken, the blow wordlessly implying that his lover had again chosen his brother over himself, subsequent indignance and anger at the perceived slight, an intrinsic need for retaliation even though the offender had been Aphrodite, whom he had never before fathomed harming, an impulse to retreat to keep himself from receiving any additional form of injury, a burning hatred of Hephaestus and a desire to skin him alive. Gingerly, he raised his other hand to explore the stinging area, wincing aloud at the unanticipated sensitivity to touch; already a deep amber-brown bruise was blooming. (Falling into the character of duty-bound wife, his assailant had adorned herself with a number of rings, all of Hephaestus' creation naturally, each with a gemstone sizable enough to have the richest of kings' mouths go agape, which would have been painful even had he not felt as if he had just been clouted with a block of marble.)
As unconcerned for his comfort as he had been hers earlier in the day, not feeling especially fond of him at all in the moment actually, the love goddess crawled to the edge of the bed, kneeling like a mortal supplicant as she entreated her husband, who had watched the entire spectacle unfold with a dispassionate expression. Eyes glowing gold met a pair that had not changed from their natural hue.
"Hephaestus, I implore you to release me." Me, she had said noticeably, which, coupled with the shockingly forceful and almost satisfying-to-observe slap she had given the war god, suggested a definite lack of any lingering amorous sentiments for her once lover, who in turn had grown uncharacteristically subdued, eyes continuing to remain downcast, still tracing tentative fingertips over his swelling cheek in something of a disbelieving daze. "I know that I have wronged you…" Cringing, she pressed a hand over her heart, which had not ceased its searing ache. Ares' life force had evaporated from her veins like vapor, leaving her feeling frailer than she had at any previous point today. "I know that I have…" A shuddering breath that ended on a muffled sob followed as pain cut through muscle and bone, and she recognized it now to be her husband's—it was she who had broken his heart and it was she facing the repercussions of love coming undone. What she would not give to see those shattered pieces put back together, return things to their proper state.
"…hurt you," she choked out hoarsely, "with my actions, and for that I do not even have words sufficient enough to express my remorse," she continued, looking up at him with huge, earnest, still an off-shade-of-gold eyes, over-bright with barely-contained tears. For being the very embodiment of beauty, she looked utterly, heart-wrenchingly pitiful as she appealed to him, her complexion ashen (almost to the point of looking ill), hair snarled, half falling from its sloppy updo, and then there was that beseeching gaze. "Please believe me when I say that it was not done with malicious intent, there was no thought involved at all, I ashamed to admit: I am a slave to my nature and a senseless fool. Involving myself intimately with your brother was undeniably the worst mistake I have ever made."
Had he not overheard the argument betwixt herself and her so-called "worst mistake" in his wash-room hours ago, the cuckolded smith might actually have believed her to be sincerely repentant, he had trusted her implicitly for half a century after all; as it was, her own tongue had betrayed her as he unwillingly listened in on what was meant—and assumed—to be a private exchange. By her own admission, she would do, and say for that matter, whatever she felt was most necessary for her own self-preservation. (Also, he had gotten the distinct impression that their verbal sparring match, during which they insulted each other every bit as much as himself—was simply part of their before-bedroom-play, the makings of a dysfunctional union if ever he saw one; her last comment was surely meant to again heat his brother's blood in some sort of way. As it was, Ares still remained silent and petulant, obviously wrestling with the mental acrobatics involved in figuring out what he had done that was so very dreadful that his lover felt the need to slap him.)
"A mistake repeated continuously over the course of five decades' time can hardly be considered as such," the master smith informed her flatly, his newfound knowledge of her character allowing for no pity. "Was your time spent in my brother's company near so heinous as you claim it to be, why then did you not ensure that a second occurrence did not follow the first incident? It was with an admirable amount of dedication to the task that you concealed your affair, surely, with the same level of diligence, you could have committed yourself instead to rising above your base instincts, no?"
Only this morning, he had found the slight coloring of her cheeks when she blushed—as indeed she was now—the single most endearing sight he had ever beheld, but now it served as a physical manifestation of her guilt and embarrassment at being caught in a lie.
"You know of his nature, he was…unrelenting," she tried in vain, hunching her form to make herself appear smaller, fragile, her efforts to misdirect his quiet wrathfulness elsewhere almost laughable. Was this cruel, cunning being trapped before him in his net really the goddess with whom he had fallen hopelessly in love, or was he in the presence now of the one who had won his brother's heart? The joke was on them both: there was only one being in the world whom she cared for, and he was inclined to believe it was herself. "After so much time, it was easier to simply acquiesce."
"Should you have informed me of the goings-on outside of our marriage," Hephaestus retorted pointedly, "I would have seen to it that he 'accosted' you no further. If you wished earnestly to have been rid of him, I am certain you would have found a way, chase you across the world though he might," he added, a subtle way of telling her that he had heard their entire dialogue and that no matter what she might say, he knew better than to allow himself to be swayed.
In case he needed any further aid in steeling his resolve, the war god chose now, after first experimentally rotating his jaw about several times in an evaluation of damage, to throw himself again into the fray, willing to metaphorically strike either of them, ideally both. "The portrait of innocence, is she not?" he sneered, a hand still guarding the bruised side of his face while the other twisted in the unyielding gold fibers as though poised to again tug at them. "Practically a blushing maiden, with the misfortune of having fallen prey to my ravenous appetite." He gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Hardly. Unlike you, who has to resort to catching any potential paramours like a fish from the sea, women do not come unwillingly to my bed, and your wife is no exception. I tell you, you should hear how hungrily she begs me for my cock, and how wantonly she moans when I fill her to completion; no sweeter sound is there on earth than that of her crying out my name as she shatters around me, except perhaps when she pleads for me to take her anew. She is insatiable."
Aphrodite fixed him with a vicious glare that very nearly marred her beauty, a nonverbal warning that if he did not cease his crass, and downright condemning, talk, she would guarantee personally that it would cost him greatly—an empty threat considering how poorly she looked, before, quick as an actor switching masks for a compelling theatrical performance, she turned back to her husband with a wounded expression and hint of a pout as if to ask, "You will let him speak so crudely about your wife?"
Briefly, the younger son of Hera appeared to contemplate this…well…to be fair, she had told him in not so many words that she wanted Ares punished for his vulgar speech, not seeming to realize that whatever sentence befell him did her as well. So be it. Then came a faint flicker of fire in his eyes and the thin strands that had made the net so easy to conceal expanded to ten times their previous girth, from a hair to a finger's thickness, and more than quintupling in their earlier weight, bearing down heavily upon the trapped gods (when prior to that it had better resembled cobwebs in heft and texture).
Hephaestus limped resolutely over to the bed, cinched the handline, and gave it a firm pull, causing the net to glide swiftly and smoothly over the edge of the mattress and spill its contents onto the floor. It was done deliberately that Ares was the first to hit the unforgiving marble with a painful-sounding thud (leaving spidery cracks where his body fell) and a fluent string of curses from several different dialects. That is for making a mistress of my wife, you filthy cur. Said wife at least had a divine cushion to land atop before tumbling unharmed—except perhaps being a bit short of breath from flattening the war god, whose tensed, combat-hardened physique was not an enormous improvement from the stone flooring—to the ground when he irritably shook her off and righted himself.
The trio vanished thereafter from the palace of the master smith, not that the adulterous pair were given any choice in the matter, seeing as the net was dragged along behind its maker. When the particularly thick cloud of smoke from their joint teleportation cleared, the heavy double doors that sealed off the grand ballroom in Zeus' home stood ominously before them. Behind the closed doors came a great many voices chattering indistinctly, forming a sort of low roar, punctuated by cheerful musical tones.
"Please no," Aphrodite whispered faintly, feeling positively ill as her already pallid countenance blanched further. From the sound of it, there was not a god in existence who was not in attendance, and every last one of them was about to bear witness to her utter disgrace. "Anything but this."
From Ares, ever the motivational speaker: "It will be the last thing that you ever do in life."
Speaking over his brother, which required a great deal more strength than she would have thought initially, his wife tried again to appeal to him and thusly escape the fate that awaited her, sensing his wavering resolve as his free hand lingered over the intricate doorknob. "If ever there was a time you loved me, you will not do this."
Not one to be outdone, the war god added, likewise raising his voice to be heard over her, "Your body has been broken once before, and the pain you knew then will be nothing compared to the agony you will experience by my hand as I break it again."
Back and forth the pair went, their 'persuasive' tactics soon turning into spitting poison at the other as though he had entrapped a duo of vipers as opposed to two of some of the most powerful beings in existence. Their voices blended together into a single, indecipherable, and frankly headache-inducing babble. Even still, the once-lovers behaved as if the outside world did not exist beyond the thick golden strands, the sole occupants in a universe entirely of their own invention, however hostile an environment it may have been. The realization that they had eyes only for the other, whether filled with love or loathing, frustrated the cuckolded smith more than he expected, and the frustration induced decisiveness, and his hand shot out to grab hold of the decorative knob and give a hard tug. The door flew open, banging against the wall, and causing all conversation in the ballroom to falter as curious eyes strained to catch sight of the source of the disruption; it was now or never.
"I have for you your 'definitive proof', my queen!" he announced for all to hear, feigning boldness even though his heart felt as if it were about to leap from his chest, and strode determinedly into the room, tugging the net along behind him.
Author's Note, Pt. II: I changed my mind, I still have no idea who she's going to end up with because I've gotten some new ideas that are probably going to take the story in a different direction than I'd originally planned. I'll be honest though, nothing has actually been planned planned, I had a few set ideas in mind when I started this, so the story is as much a surprise to me at times as it may be to some of you. I'll keep the rest of this short because FanFiction is doing something where it starts to delete words as I type them.
With that being said, thank you all, as always for sticking with me through this crazy process!
Until next time.
-Impersonating Sugar