A Love Like War

by Impersonating Sugar

"Here I thought it was only a dance you sought, when in truth you mean to woo me. I must inform you that I am, as of now, a married woman." Aphrodite tossed her head. Her act was not fooling Ares in the slightest and he chuckled in response. "And yet you remain in my arms when a woman truly concerned with honoring her vows would have struck my face and turned on her heel."

11. Chapter 11

Author's Note, Pt 1: I'm kind of proud of myself for being able to keep to my deadlines, especially with how busy I've been-one of my two jobs is retail and let me tell you, holiday shoppers have no mercy. (And I'm actually starting to move forward at my other job, which I enjoy, but it's going to be super time-consuming). On top of that, I had a horrible scare where, midway through writing this chapter, my laptop decided to update itself without me telling it to and I thought I lost 5,000 words and I was scrambling frantically to write down everything that I remembered on receipt tape at work (and didn't come close), but thankfully I was able to recover it and now I save things pretty much obsessively.

This chapter features a new character, although I have briefly mentioned him before, and there are mentions of sexual harassment, so be advised, but for the most part, it contains tons of Olympian-family drama, a bunch of shade being thrown, a few fists, and the gods being ridiculous and over-powered, which has been so much fun to write.

From the second he departed onward—aside from a brief 'interval' with Zeus upon the parlor couch, and several subsequent moments when they somehow ended back up in their bed, unable to bring themselves to make the necessary preparations to begin their day—Hera had anxiously anticipated Hephaestus' return with his so-called 'definitive proof', to the point where she jumped at the slightest movement in her peripheral vision. There was no question of what the proof brought to her would be—his wife and her lover caught in a compromising position—rather how he was going to accomplish this feat. Silently she cursed him, her good-for-nothing second son, preventing her from basking fully in the attention her husband paid her; the king of the skies however seemed to think it a merry game to distract her to the best of his considerable abilities.

Following a long, luxurious bath together, during which very little washing was actually accomplished, the queen of the heavens returned to their bed chambers (her husband impishly stealing her towel so that she could not cover herself as she traveled from one location to the other, utterly incorrigible) to see that the room had been filled from almost top to bottom with extravagant bouquets of lilies, her sacred flower, in almost every color imaginable. Accompanying the garish display was a necklace inspired by the tail of a peacock, emeralds and sapphires framed in gold and fanning out into a floral shape, which Zeus placed round her neck as she sat at her vanity table and carefully combed the tangles he had created from her hair, telling her that he wished to renew their vows before the Fates, insisting that, this time, he would honor them completely.

Admittedly, she had not thought to get him a gift in which to celebrate this monumental anniversary of theirs, fully expecting it to be no different than any other day in their thousand years of marriage, beginning with finding his side of the bed cold, spending the hours to come pacing and worrying that this would be the final time they performed this dance (exhaustive as it may have been), that he had finally found what he so desperately seemed to be looking for in his latest mistress, only for him to return to their palace as the hour grew late and stand unabashedly before her as she interrogated him furiously, learning all that she could so that, the following day, she could annihilate the his newest lover.

He assured her that she had already given him the greatest of gifts, a millennium of her unwavering devotion, therefore making him the luckiest man alive. Hera wished, rather than believed, it to be true, that silver tongue of his could even charm snakes, but already it was mid-afternoon and still there was no sign of Hephaestus, so with the same uncharacteristic spontaneity as early this morning and an almost unheard-of agreeableness, she decided simply to go along with things, allowing herself to bask unashamedly in her king's generously-bestowed attention. Tomorrow was an entire day away, what mattered today was that she was his as she had always been, he being the first sight she had ever beheld when she and their siblings were disgorged from the belly of Cronus (hair as golden as the rays of sunlight which would be her second-ever sight, eyes blue as the sky that would become her third), and, more importantly, that he was hers and hers alone.

For the first time in centuries, she dared to let herself feel optimistic about what the future held for herself and her lord husband. The ceremony itself, when they again recited their vows from a thousand years prior and pledged themselves to the other anew, was a shockingly small, intimate affair for two such indulgent immortals, between only themselves, the Fates, and their elder siblings as witnesses (save for Demeter, who found both to be distasteful and demurred). The reception on the other hand, thrown quickly together by the ever-efficient Hestia—who had been given only a day's notice by her youngest brother—and an army of servants, nymphs, and lesser gods and goddesses alike, was singularly the gaudiest display thrown atop the Olympian peak since the wedding of its new king and queen: enough candles lit to the fill the night sky, flowers to fill a dozen fields, several fountains from which ran sweet wine as opposed to water, only the finest food and drink served to the guests, dressed in their very best and numbering in the hundreds, with all being required to attend to pay homage (oddly enough, three members of the Dodekatheon were conspicuously absent, which was very poor form, although two of the absentees were her worthless sons who went unmissed and her witless daughter-in-law rounding out the trio), while the Muses played one musical masterpiece after the next.

Hera and Zeus sat upon their thrones watching the festivities unfold before them, her necklace gleaming ostentatiously in the candlelight as the pendant sat upon her breast, his hand resting atop hers, never once moving, although several times, he would lift it and press her knuckles to his lips. Each time, the queen of the heavens was certain that her heart might explode from happiness. In short, the evening, the entire day, had been glorious...until….

Between the music and the chatter of several hundred speakers, the room could not be called 'quiet' by any stretch of the imagination (one had to half-shout to be understood by their companions), but even still, the sound of one the heavy double doors striking the stone wall with a jarring bang as it flew open could be heard over the commotion. The following silence as all strained to catch a glimpse of who could possibly be so ill-mannered and so bold as to interrupt their queen and king's anniversary gala was deafening by comparison. A hulking figure stood, shadowed, in the doorway, initially leading both host and hostess and their guests to believe him to be Ares, who was both bold and ill-mannered enough to do that very thing (and who could forget the last ball that had been held, during which he had dematerialized in the middle of the room with the force of a small explosion?), except then, he spoke.

"I have for you your 'definitive proof', my queen!"

"He would not dare…" a mortified Hera whispered to her husband, who leaned forward, scowling, his hands already aglow with the energy of his thunderbolt, as their younger son marched into the room. Not this, not now. Not here. Her fingers curled so tightly around the armrest of her throne that they nearly bit off a chunk of marble. Hephaestus was dragging something behind him, a net of sorts. While the contents were still concealed from their view due in part to his massive form, the voice cursing his name from inside the trap was only too familiar. With his every step, his captive (or at least one of them) struggled furiously against him, causing him more than once to stagger as he lumbered slowly but resolutely forward, fiery eyes finding and holding hers.

"…Hephaestus has entrapped the Goddess of Love and the God of War!" cried out an indistinct voice, the speaker being among those closest to the door, singlehandedly sending the room into an uproar.

When another of those standing nearby the entranceway announced gleefully, "Caught them in the midst of a lover's tryst from the look of it—there is not a stitch of clothing to be seen between them!", peaking even the interest of Zeus who leaned ever so slightly farther forward on his throne (forgotten were his promises to reform his rakish ways), half of the guests swarmed the blacksmith god and his hostages like a hive of bees, predominantly the gods, although there was a handful of goddesses who possessed a…cheekier…sort of disposition amongst them. Muttering disapprovingly about scandal and indecency, the other half of the revelers—this half primarily made up of all the rest of the goddesses, although there were a few gods with a stronger sense of propriety—fled like birds into the wind to preserve their delicate sensibilities.

"I must attend more of these events—I had no way of knowing that such…entertainment…would be provided."

"Woe be to Ares. Which do you think is the more shameful of the two, being caught up nude in a net or knowing that he has been bested by the likes of Hephaestus?"

"I would let myself willingly to be bested by Hephaestus if it meant I was to be imprisoned in a net with Aphrodite."

"Marked up, bitten, and bruised, what must go on in the privacy of his bed chambers!"

"Let me through," growled Hephaestus lowly, for the hordes of spectators prevented him from making any sort of movement forward to drop his net at his appalled birth-giver's feet as was the vision he had had in his mind. It was as much his disgrace that delighted them as Ares' and Aphrodite's; he had not considered the humiliation that accompanied his fellows' ridicule and mirth beforehand, nor had he anticipated how much he would despise watching other men leer over his wife—no, not his wife, she was as good as Ares', he should not care who saw her unclothed—blinded he had been by his need for revenge. Despite the vast power he wielded over all but his Dodekatheon comembers, not a one budged, and he knocked several aside with his shoulder as he pressed doggedly onward.

"Do you suppose that this is the first time that he has ever seen his wife in this splendid state?"

"He could have kept her all to himself; how good of him to share her."

As lascivious eyes raked over her unclothed form, Aphrodite turned away in part from shame that again had nothing to do with her nudity, in part with uncharacteristic disgust at being so blatantly admired—no, this was not admiration in the slightest. This, this felt degrading—and, trapped in the net with Hephaestus' heartache nearly incapacitating her, the sensation was a highly unsettling one—in this situation, she would fare no better against a lustful god than would a mortal woman. All knew how gods tended to treat their resistant mortal conquests. Vexed at him though still she was, she nevertheless acted on instinct and sought out Ares, whose entire frame was trembling with uncontained fury, curling into him and burying her face in his chest, which strangely enough, he permitted despite a good portion of his ire being also directed at her for slapping him.

"Come now, beautiful one," the lesser god crooned as several others grinned wolfishly, "do not pretend as though you are timid; you have welcomed our admiration many times before." As though he thought that this was going to properly entice her to come out from her rather ineffective hiding place, he dropped to a crouch alongside the net and coaxed, "Let us gaze upon your fair figure." His next breath was expelled in a curse as he leapt back, spilling his drink all over himself, when, giving an inhuman snarl and seeming to forget completely about being bound, Ares shook off his lover and lunged for the minor deity like a lion set to sink its teeth into and tear out the throat of its prey, only to come crashing back to earth.

Consumed by a protective rage of his own that eradicated any sense, Hephaestus was only too happy to finish what his brother had started, catching hold of the collar of the offending deity's peplos with an unexpected agility and hoisting him several inches into the air, scorching the fabric fisted in his hand to an ashen black.

"You do not speak that way to my wife," he warned, the pure menace in his tone making him sound eerily similar to the war god.

"Do not…fault me…for appreciating that which you…p-put on display in the first place," wheezed the inferior immortal, trying in vain to pry loose the unbreakable grip as the burning cloth began to form something of a blazing noose around his neck. As much as he hated to admit it, there was truth to be found in the words and the master smith resignedly let him drop; he had been suspended only a few inches above the floor, but nonetheless, he crumpled to the ground from the impact of his landing, which had been manipulated by the greater power to feel as though he had fallen from a cliff. One lesson he would learn that day was that no member of the Dodekatheon, even the most seemingly docile of them, was to be crossed.

"Enough!" boomed Zeus, who, despite Hera's initial discomfort, had at first been enjoying the spectacle. However, as she grew all the more agitated as their celebratory gala turned quickly into a theatrical performance, he grew infuriated that all of his careful planning had quite literally gone up in flames (the minor god's garbs had actually caught fire before he was released) and his poor wife, who had looked radiant as she glowed with a happiness unseen for centuries, would forever after remember this day with abject horror. Thunder rumbled ominously outside the marble walls, which seemed to shake in fear as, inside, the chandeliers and chinaware trembled in fright at the might of the brewing storm. "Be gone," he commanded, his power ringing in his voice,"all of you!"

Suffice to say, the ballroom was instantaneously cleared, save for the king and queen, Hephaestus and his captives, and Poseidon, who had neither bothered to join the crowd of onlookers—he would see the Goddess of Love's famed figure soon enough, and with any luck enjoy a private…viewing…of it, if things progressed the way he anticipated that they would—nor flee from the room simply because his thundering younger brother so decreed it. After all, he was himself a king, and besides, the real entertainment of the evening was only just beginning! Calmly, as though he had every right and more to be present (which, as far as he was concerned, he did), he filled his goblet from the deep burgundy stream of wine that bubbled forth from one of the fountains, and sipped leisurely, sea-blue eyes bright with interest peering over the rim.

By now any wise god would have seen the murderous intent written in Zeus' burning, white-hot eyes, realized the gravity of his mistake and taken flight, but not so Hephaestus, who seemed almost anxious to see just how far his immortality could be stretched. While he did turn to smoke with his prisoners in tow, he again assumed his solid form directly before the extravagant thrones of his parents, laying his catch before their feet.

"Here is your definitive proof," he repeated, this time far more insolently, making Poseidon silently thank the Fates and congratulate himself on the fact that his own son Triton had never been anything but a source of absolute pride, a worthy second-in-command. (Like his brother, he too had his fair share of disappointing offspring—although fortunately for him, each had been half-blooded and all memory of them was lessened and eventually lost entirely to the sands of time with their death—a prime example being the Aloadae, the troublesome giant twins who had once tried to overthrow Olympus, but even fathering them paled in comparison to Zeus' shame. Almighty Zeus had sired the cripple standing before himself and Hera, the only god in existence to have ever been born deformed. Deformed and so remarkably entitled; even after humiliating the queen before her subjects, he had the gall to presumably think himself deserving of a divorce.)

Evidentially Zeus shared the same sentiments that went unspoken by his elder brother: for several long minutes, each seeming an eternity in itself, he verbally laid into his son's hide, listing, with no shortage of detail, his deficiencies, how much of a disgrace he was to his parents, and how undeserving of his position of power he was. All at once, overcome with emotion, with outrage, with revulsion, with a need to avenge his slighted wife, he leapt to his feet, a thunderbolt appearing instantly in his already-glowing hand. (Both Aphrodite and Ares flinched, each thinking it was intended for them). Drawing back his arm and aiming it directly at an invisible target on Hephaestus' chest, he snarled, "Give me one reason why I should not smite you where stand and turn your broken body to dust."

Hera murmured his name in a protest, some unforeseen maternal instinct rearing its head and making her decide that, despite her inability to tolerate her younger son in the slightest, she did not want to see him burnt alive by her wrathful husband. Thrown from Olympus perhaps, as Zeus had gallantly offered earlier to do, exiled indefinitely, but not turned to ash before her eyes.

"If I may," intoned Poseidon, half-raising his hand to catch his youngest sibling's attention, and receiving a withering stare in response. "I believe I have reason enough that you should not do anything quite so drastic." Even as he turned to vapor to spare himself the trouble of walking across the room to join them, his voice could still be heard saying, "Do recall the events leading up to the marriage of Aphrodite and Hephaestus: an unknown admirer had gifted our lovely queen with a throne of gold, a marvelous offering to be certain, except for one small flaw in its design—should one seat themselves upon it, there they would stay, permanently. Thus, we had ourselves quite the predicament," he finished, returning to his godly shape alongside his nephew and raising his glass to him in an acknowledging toast before draining the goblet and vanishing it away, despite the fact that he seemed initially to be selling the younger god down the River Styx. Hephaestus' black scowl in response told his uncle plainly that, while he understood what he was alluding to and could see how it would serve to aid him, his interference was unwelcomed.

Rather presumptuous was it of his nephew to think he had intervened on his behalf, when in truth, he could not have cared less about the fate that befell him. (He had never been especially fond of the sniveling cripple at any rate, favoring Ares, whom he had watched grow to godhood alongside his son, often acting the part of a surrogate father when it became plain that his sire hated him above all others.)

"Recall also, if you will, that quickly it became apparent that none but the throne's maker was capable of setting its captive free, and I can say with certainty that the same conditions would apply to his latest creation. Bring an end to his immortality and turn him to dust, and you will lose not one, but three members of the high council, for I would venture that the God of War and the Goddess of Beauty are unable to properly utilize their powers so long as they are bound. And may I further remind you that, since the days of our war against the Titans, you have reiterated that our strength lies within our numbers." As he spoke, his eyes roved over every luscious curve of Aphrodite's body, seeing now why his fellows had been driven to near madness by her nakedness; in the past, there had been some harmless flirtation between both parties, but now, now he had to have her for himself.

Sensing the change in direction that her would-be rescuer's thoughts had taken, Aphrodite caught his gaze and held it firmly. (Her will rendered him incapable of breaking eye contact with her and looking her over any more thoroughly—commanding a male came so naturally to her that it could be done even without having access to the full spectrum of her powers.) By this point, she was rightfully fed up with every last one of the gods—betrayed by Hephaestus, mishandled by Ares, stared at as though she was a choice cut of meat by all the rest of them—and ready to swear off menfolk as a whole and do the unthinkable, abstain altogether from intimacy, but she knew from the way he looked at her that Poseidon's intervention came with a nonnegotiable price. They seemed a logical pair, two beings belonging to the sea first and foremost, each holding a seat in the Dodekatheon—it was almost as if their paths had been intended by the Fates to cross, almost as if it was inevitable that one day they would adjoin intimately, for they also shared the same swiftness and enthusiasm in taking lovers.

After the excruciating day she had been having, all thanks to those accursed sons of Hera, the love goddess found herself unable to muster even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for what presumably lay ahead of her; quite contrarily, the thought of yet another male's hands all over her had her stomach tightening and her skin crawling as though a thousand phantom insects walked across it. (The irony of the situation did not escape her: this morning, she had been all but consumed by her desire to make love to her homely husband, whereas at present she was positively repulsed by the prospect of coupling with someone who should ordinarily have been a far more appealing alternative). But if the great Earth Shaker was able to guarantee her release, and it seemed very likely that he would succeed—their king had agreed grudgingly that his brother's logic was sound and lowered himself slowly back down onto his throne—so be it.

An agreement between them was made without the need for words, not even in the form of a telepathic exchange.

"The high council be damned," came the retort of a surprisingly hostile Hephaestus, snapping all eyes back to him. "I've no intention whatsoever of releasing them—I know precisely what will occur if I do: in next to no time at all, I will find them again in what was meant to be my marital bed. Discovering them once in such a position has brought me enough shame for a lifetime and more, I will not allow there to be a second occurrence." What he did not say was that he could not bear the thought of Aphrodite publicly flaunting her amorous relationship with Ares; she would not be his wife any longer and therefore could do whatever it was that her cold heart desired, but all at once, he was no so certain that he wished to relinquish his title as her husband: it opened the door for her to meet the war god at the altar and wed him, and he would not give her the satisfaction.

Aphrodite glared up at him, this cruel stranger who looked so very much like her cherished husband. No pity could be found within her for his plight. No right had he to gripe about having been shamed, when it was she who had been robbed of every last trace of her dignity, trussed up nude in a net of his own creation—which had not initially been the humiliating part, that started with the lewd comments and the ravenous stares, reminding her of her defenseless position, even now she could feel the weight of both the sea and sky kings' gazes—and put on display before the entire pantheon, forced to watch as her reputation fell to pieces.

"Depraved wretch, you took her in their marital bed?" Hera demanded of her elder son, her irises ablaze with the colors of a peacock, her expression not dissimilar to her husband's when he aimed his thunderbolt at Hephaestus' heart. (Her husband meanwhile was now taking full advantage of her distractedness to take his turn at shamelessly perusing the Goddess of Love's unclothed body; his renewed vows were conspicuously absent from his mind.) Some long dormant motherly instinct may have had her vying to spare her third child from annihilation at his father's hand, but she had no qualms whatsoever about her second born being smote and would love nothing more than to be the one to commit the act of filicide. "I should have you torn, quartered, and gelded! You were ordered some fifty years ago to leave her be!"

Zeus started at the severity of his wife's tone, and, fearing the same fate might befall him, it was with great difficulty that tore his eyes away from the spectacular view before there had been nothing but undisguised, predatory hunger in his eyes as he looked over the fairer of Hephaestus' two captives, there was a certain reverence that softened his countenance when he regarded his furious queen. Rage made her radiant, and it was for that reason he did not interfere: as much of an irritant as he was, there was no denying that his should-be heir could provoke her—and therefore stoke her fiery temper—like no other.

"You think this only the second time that I have laid claim to my brother's wife?" responded Ares, sounding affronted by her questioning of his physical prowess.

It was inferred that Hera knew, perhaps too well, of the first time that he had tried take Aphrodite for himself, and the realization had Hephaestus' frown deepening as he looked between them, trying to decide the impossible: who in the room it was that he despised the most, his brother for stealing his wife when he had every goddess in the cosmos at his disposal, his birth-giver for turning a blind eye, keeping him ignorant of the love goddess' adulterous nature, and allowing him to act like a besotted imbecile for half a century, or his bride for being an only too-willing participant, if not even the instigator of the affair.

"I assure you, Mother, the deed was done many times in the last fifty-some years, not just carried out in their otherwise vacant marital bed." The God of War's venom-laced words earned him warning looks which implied that he should, for once, use his senses and be silent, from both his former lover (who bristled as she wondered how it was that the queen of the heavens had borne not one, but two, such odious beings who were so quick to resort to degrading her for their own personal gain) and his uncle, but he could not have stayed his tongue should even it have been cut from his mouth. The roiling fury and hatred rolling in great waves off those around him only heightened his own hostile feelings towards all of the assembled; words were the only weapon made available to him at present and he wanted their blood, welcomed their shame, anger, upset. "I found with very little difficulty that any number of environments could be tailored to suit my purpose—"

"And he has seen the error of his ways," interjected Poseidon forcefully, while simultaneously exerting his will as one of the world's highest powers and projecting his thoughts into his thickheaded nephew's mind to keep the younger god from any further interfering with his agenda. You have been made a fool by a cripple, and if you wish to satisfy your need for vengeance and take your pound of flesh from his hide, you will say no more. Without my intervention, you will spend an eternity entrapped, naught but the tagline of an everlasting joke.

Glowering up at him, Ares nevertheless did the unthinkable by yielding, if only so that he could have his chance to flay his younger brother alive, allowing the sea king to usurp control of the makeshift council. In quite a different tone of voice, far more amiable, he said aloud, "I must commend you, Hephaestus. Your need for retribution was nothing if not justifiable, and now you have had it, besting those who have wronged you in a most ingenious manner." Here, he gave the master smith a congratulatory pat on his shoulder, only for a painful burning sensation to spread through his nerves and up his arm at the clearly unwelcome touch, although he valiantly did not snatch back his hand.

"I think the punishment justly fits the crime," agreed Hephaestus, looking pointedly down at Poseidon's hand, though even still it remained where it was, despite the faintest pained grimace to flicker across his uncle's face. "Half a century has come and gone, during which they have desperately sought out the other's company, and I shall oblige them: for an additional fifty years, they shall remain bound and have none but their lover's companionship."

Better than an eternity of confinement like he had threatened earlier, but still far from being an especially pleasing alternative. Unable to help herself, Aphrodite, who had buried her face in her hands, the closest she could come to outright disappearing, raised her head sharply and uttered a wordless cry of protest, while Ares likewise cursed in the barbaric dialogue that he often slipped unthinkingly into and, forgetting the God of the Seas' decree that he contain himself, wrestled again with the net in yet another failed bid for freedom. Meanwhile, the master smith made to step back, out of the sea king's reach, but the elder god's fingers bit into his shoulder under the guise of still a friendly, if not outwardly conciliatory, gesture.

"While it is a deserving fate for them, I fear that they cannot be imprisoned for even half that time, for it is imperative that their seats in the high court be filled. The order of the world, the very fate of our worshippers, depends heavily upon their prompt release," cautioned Poseidon, who was no stranger to playing the diplomat in council meetings, and therefore chose his words with care to appeal to both Hephaestus, in the form of his mentioning the humans he was so fond of, and Zeus, in the form of making the master smith's inaction appear to pose a direct threat to the heavens in which he reigned over.

Hephaestus was unmoved, at least in the direction that Poseidon attempted to guide him. The supposed concern that his uncle expressed for their worshippers was laughable coming from the mouth of a god who afflicted as much hardship and woe upon the mortals he was now allegedly advocating on behalf of as all the rest of their ranks, his retribution coming at the slightest provocation in the form of raging storms that sunk ships, dragging sailors to the depths, and flooded fields. His true motives were clear as crystal: like Ares, he too wanted his wife and was audacious enough to try to manipulate the blacksmith god into delivering her to him on a silver platter! Zeus too was not so inconspicuous as he thought himself to be as he likewise eyed her. Not yet had any mention of a divorce been made, and already contenders to be Aphrodite's next lover were swarming like locust in careless disregard of the fact that still he remained her husband, both of whom were his blood.

He should have known better than to think even for a minute that he had an ally in any one of the other immortals in the room. Furious with himself for his naivete as he was with his familiars, he roughly swatted away his traitorous relative's hand, only to unleash a sharp hiss of pain and fold into himself when he felt as if his entire aura had been doused by an icy spray; water was a force greater than fire, the force wielding it greater than himself.

But pain for him was a way of life and he forced his way through it, straightening up to glare at his assailant. "By all means then, if it is so crucial that they be released, you are welcome to try your hand at liberating them," came his cold invitation as he folded his arms in a protective barrier over his chest, trying to keep trapped the wavering heat characteristic of his lifeforce. "I refuse to aid either you or our king in your pursuit of my wife."

"'Wife', you call her," spat Ares, the allure of the surrounding conflict too great for him resist engaging in and adding to in his usual fashion. "That is the singular most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! You do not envision her as your wife, you view her as a love slave, yours to own." Aphrodite found his assertion to be one of incredible hypocrisy, but at the same time oddly heartwarming as he defended her in his own unconventional way: "Perhaps instead of a net, you should have constructed a set of manacles to keep her shackled to your bed to ensure that she remain solely in your possession."

Except, to his great annoyance, the war god went completely ignored, as, unable to meet his wife's eye when she turned to look icily at him, Zeus devoted his full attention to the second of his two legitimate sons. The threat of his hard-acquired kingdom potentially falling into ruin was enough to spur him into taking charge of the situation, and he growled with lightning glowing in his eyes, "I tire of such childish defiance from such an inadequate waste of immortal flesh; you will release them."

Whereas the sea king had aimed for temporarily weakening Hephaestus' aura when he launched his attack, his younger brother's approach was to forcibly bend and twist his son's will. Feeling very much like invisible fingers had closed round his neck, the master smith's head was twisted to look down upon the net, and his gaze began to heat in preparation to turn his creation to dust with an unspoken command. At the very last moment, and perhaps it was the blood of Hera coursing through his veins that enabled him to do so (for Ares too could very briefly fight off their "father's" will), he wrenched his eyes away from the thick golden strands heaped on the floor and the captives contained by them, catching a fleeting glance of the God of War tensing, poised to spring follow his impending release and Aphrodite regarding him with an odd expression, as though unable to decide if she found pity or joy in his predicament.

"No," he ground out painfully as the unseen fingers seemed to constrict around his windpipe. "I will. Not." As a result of his struggle with Zeus in a bid at reclaiming his will, the net repetitiously flickered and again grew solid. During one such transition from haziness and back, Ares was able to get a hand through the woven fibers and grasped a fistful tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, serving as still another incentive as to why the master smith was sorely disinclined to set either him or his soon-to-be-former wife free.

"Enough of this, Hephaestus," admonished Poseidon, his voice still low and calm despite his own swift form of punishment, although there was an underlying hint of menace, and he was otherwise quite unconcerned by the fact that his nephew was caught in an invisible stranglehold. "As I have said before, you have already accomplished what you set out to do. Yield now and you shall still be able to walk away with your head held high. Continue to behave like a petulant child and refuse your king's orders and you will only shame yourself and change the entire narrative of the story of your triumph."

Suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, which, understandably, had come from the emotional tribulations of the day and two of the three most powerful gods in the cosmos ruthlessly battering him with their influences (which he had withstood valiantly, a testament to his own frequently underestimated strength), Hephaestus' shoulders slumped and he did as he was told and yielded. It may have been the less severe pull of Zeus' energy that had him turning back to face his creation, but when the gold fibers turned to a fine powder and faded away, the decision was his and his alone—and he knew perfectly well that, come what may, he had brought it upon himself.

Throwing back his head and giving a triumphant roar that bordered on a battle cry, Ares leapt at once to his feet, dark smoke curling around him as instantly he was dressed and fully suited in his armor, save for his helmet—done deliberately so he could look his younger brother in the eye when he cut him down. A sword jumped into his hand when he called to it by clenching and then unclenching his fingers, although a single, albeit frighteningly severe, look from a blazing-eyed Zeus gave him pause, and carefully (and completely uncharacteristically) he sheathed his weapon and stood at attention, as would a soldier before his general, again baffling behavior for him because he did not regard their king as his superior. Aphrodite, on the other hand, lagged considerably behind him in terms of agility.

Having received another knifelike twist to her heart that left her winded—this being Hera's anguish as she realized Zeus' intent to betray her again, apparently the love goddess' doing, apparently everything to have transpired today unjustly seemed to be her fault—she simply could not seem to find her footing; her legs were as unsteady beneath her as a newly birthed foal's, she felt oddly top-heavy, and as for the prospect of clothing herself, the feat seemed insurmountable. Her supposed soul's mate could not be bothered to move from his rigid stance and offer her any sort of assistance—meanwhile Hephaestus spared her a glance, only to quickly look away—and the rejection of both the men she loved cut her to the core. In her mind, she heard the queen's terse order of, To your feet, harlot, but could not carry out the task until aid came in the form of Poseidon helping her to stand, gallantly willing a sumptuous robe into existence to conceal her body as he did. She would sooner have remained nude and incapacitated upon the floor than choose to seek out and accept his help, and his touch turned her blood to ice.

Fortunately, he then stepped back a pace, leaving Aphrodite flanked by his nephews, bowing his head respectfully to Hera, murmuring, "As you will, my queen." So, it seemed then that the queen of the skies was to preside over the makeshift council and dole out punishments as she deemed fit, a terrifying thought in and of itself—and the Goddess of Love hugged her arms around herself, not just to ward off the chill that had wormed its way deep into her bones.

"It is an absolute abomination that one quarter of the Dodekatheon is comprised of such utterly worthless gods as yourselves," Hera snapped with no preamble whatsoever. "You two, an embarrassment to your bloodline," she told her offensive offspring, "and you…" Aphrodite flinched under her harsh stare, biting her lip and feeling miniscule; Hephaestus, having already heard this speech hours earlier, remained stoic, as did Ares, which was again unusual; an enormous part of his appeal had always been his fiery temperament and his histrionic reactions. "…a flagrant temptress undeserving and uncomprehending of your domain of love. Furthermore, you have the audacity to insult my domain by making a game of dishonoring your vows and doing so by pitting my useless sons, pitting brothers, against each other for your own perverse amusement."

"I see now why you entreated me this morn to be rid of her," she said to her second son, making it easy for the love goddess to see whom it was that her once-paramour had learned to fight from, at least in terms of sparring verbally, "and I will grant you your divorce." A grimace marred her regal features—the dissolution of a marriage never failed to deplete her strength.

"That will no longer be necessary: it was during our morning meet that you reminded me of the sanctity and permanence of the vows we exchanged," mumbled Hephaestus, with no inflection in his tone as he stared dully at a point behind his birth-giver's head. Being forced to remain his lawful life-mate seemed the greatest punishment that he could inflict upon Aphrodite, even if he was the one who would suffer in the end—something as inconsequential as their marriage had not stopped her from taking lovers in the past, nor would it prevent her from doing so in the future; spite was a powerful motivator. "For better or for worse, she is my wife, and she knows now the consequences that will be befall her should she stray again," he added in warning. Spite indeed was a powerful motivator.

Hereafter he would be better at policing her extramarital activities, perhaps relying on her handmaiden Kharis, who, according to Eileithyia, appeared to be disapproving of his mistress' indiscretions, to be his eyes and ears, but certainly never trapping her, hurting her again—and for that he wished she knew how deeply remorseful he was—although that was precisely where Aphrodite's thoughts took her. She regarded him with wide eyes, like a deer standing before a huntsman's notched bow, but then something darkened behind those soft, ordinarily welcoming lavender orbs, a flash of that same haunting rose-gold that marked her as Ares' true mate followed, and she tossed her hair and turned away, issuing an unspoken challenge: he would have to catch her if he hoped to capture her and they both knew she had had decades of practice in evading him. Forever after, came her implied promise, she would make their married life as torturous for him as she possibly could. Pain for him was a way of life.

Hera though looked almost…approving…of his decision, although this was not to last.

Still, Ares contributed nothing to the dialogue, not even laxing his stiff stance, when the Goddess of Love had been half-expecting—half-hoping even, pitiful as it was to admit—that he would protest the arrangement. How could he accept it so calmly when so many times throughout their affair had he told her that she should have been his wife? Then again, the incident from the bedroom, during which he had painfully pulled her into his lap, ready to defile her before her husband, was fresh in her mind and she no more wished to be his wife, lover, acquaintance even, than Hephaestus', but still based on principle, she wanted him to speak out. To assure her of his devotion, even if she would no longer reciprocate. But anger and resentment had him turning his back on her, completely new behavior for him and rather distressing to her.

"So be it," answered Hera, privately relieved that she would not have to tear apart the marriage after all, for ties binding stronger beings together as one were far more difficult to unwind, and thusly more taxing, "your union shall remain intact, but do not think that, if your choice was made with the intent of exempting yourself from punishment for your obscenity, you shall escape any sort of consequence." Unfortunately, the three younger gods' inexplicable importance to the highest court in the pantheon largely bound her hand as far as doling out an appropriately harsh and memorable sentence went, eliminating her usual methods as an option. Consulting her equally-vindictive husband was out of the question, both for the sake of pride because it was she who had been affronted, and because she could no more stand the sight of him, the lying, lecherous bastard, than her adulterous son-and-daughter-in-law duo or her cuckolded thirdborn—and she decided then that she would do herself a service and purge the Olympian peak of them, if only for a short duration.

"Talking of consequences, I hereby sentence each of you to fifty years of exile in the mortal realm, one year for each that you have spinelessly let your whorish wife run amok," decreed the Goddess of Marriage in a tone that begged the sea king and her husband to contradict her and she turned to her elder son. "One year for each that you have laid claim to a woman who was never yours to possess. And one for every year that you…" The sharpness of the word made the love goddess jump and she wished that she could hide from the formidable queen of the heavens behind one of the hulking figures of the gods to either side of her. But both had betrayed and antagonized her—Hephaestus in his words and deeds, Ares in his current aggressively passiveness—to the point she would never express any desire to run to either again in search of comfort or comradery. "…allowed him to do so, knowing fully well the error of your ways, and once a half-century is through, you shall then serve a second term, one year for every lover you may have taken in addition to Ares."

Flushed from the roots of her hair to her toes, Aphrodite had nothing to say and merely nodded in acquiescence, certainly not about to correct her queen and inform her that there had been many more than a mere fifty men she had taken as bedmates—she possessed infinitely more social tact than her once favored lover, who would have, and had for that matter, crowed about his conquests like a cock announcing the rising sun.

"Replacements that I believe to be sufficient shall hold your seats in court—the world's order mandates that there are twelve posts to remain filled at all times, other than that there are no specifications as to whom may fill them," she informed the assembled, peacock-colored irises flicking briefly to the neutral sea-blue ones of her brother who raised and lowered in his shoulders in a play at innocence. This was not entirely true and the trio would have to be reinstated at some point to keep the balance, but fifty years—one hundred in the case of Hephaestus' whore—would not too badly disrupt the natural order.

"The alleged Goddess of 'Love's' seat will be filled by Hestia, a noble goddess who is known to vehemently honor and defendher vows." Her daughter-in-law's antithesis, a sworn maiden, filling her throne, a fitting choice; inwardly she congratulated herself at her own inventiveness. "And I shall personally petition the Fates during this time to see if the arrangement can be made a permanent one, in that she is restored to her rightful place."

"Taking the place of the God of War will be Heracles…" The name of the bastard son of Zeus that she hated above all others tasted of poison in her mouth, but there was none better than he to choose if she wished to infuriate Ares (and she did, for theirs was a hostile relationship), perhaps even teaching him a proper lesson as he raged for the next five decades.

No explosive tantrum burst forth from Ares at his mother's declaration of her decision to temporarily assign his deeply loathed half-brother to his post, no protest came from him at all actually—what in the name of Tartarus, Aphrodite wondered, beginning to grow irrationally angry at and increasingly agitated with him for his unnaturally emotionless manner, had come over him?! Was he truly so arrogant that he thought himself above such trivial matters and therefore did not feel the need to dignify it with a response? Or had he perhaps taken a none-too-subtle hint from Poseidon to refrain from any further outcries? One thing though that was indisputable was the fact that he seemed to care so little for her that he enjoyed watching the goddess who had borne him so viciously berate her. Tears of anguish burned traitorously to her eyes, and she was only just able to keep them from falling as she studied the war god's rugged features in profile, for he refused to meet her gaze.

"As for the Blacksmith God…" Hera hesitated, a suitable selection not coming immediately to her mind, but wishing to demean him nonetheless in return for his tasteless display, which had ruined an otherwise beautiful day, proving also to her that despite her lord husband's grandiose gestures of devotion his rakish ways would never change. "I am certain that a servant will suffice in a pinch, mayhap I will place my handmaiden Iris in his absence."

A sharp lance of Hephaestus' hurt pierced Aphrodite's heart, even despite his bitter front, making her give a faint whimper of pain (was this to be a fate she was resigned to for the rest of her days, being so affected by the emotions of her husband? And how was she ever to be rid of him, when he vowed to persecute her for the rest of their days?), but it was not due to the cruel words of the queen; rather, while Ares was far too filled with disdain to look at her, the master smith did, somberly watching her with the same wistful longing as she watched his brother—and that was what cost her the battle she had been fighting against her prickling tears. As they fell, they ran in scalding tracks down her cheeks.

Her most cherished lover simply did not love her, so ready and willing was he to forsake her. The beautiful, flowing words of endless devotion that poured forth from his mouth like water when they coupled were just that, words, empty words spouted out in a blind passion with no real meaning attached to them. He could just have easily have murmured them in between kissing the lips of one or the other of the two goddesses who made up his war-time harem, Eris and Enyo. He would return indiscriminately to their beds, or they to his, in her absence.

No longer concerned with putting on a good face before her king and queen, she ducked her head and spun quickly on her heel, accidentally bumping against the God of War, who might as well have been one of the pillars flanking the room for his lack of response, with the intention to disappear, to put as much distance between herself and the Olympian pantheon and the awful entities filling it as possible, only for nothing to happen aside from her body flickering like the flame of a dying candle and otherwise remain in her solid form, now owing an explanation for her impolite manner. Her pride was the only thing that continued her forward momentum: blinking away what remained of the tears as she walked, she approached Poseidon as though that had been her intention all along, a seductive smile coming naturally to her lips despite her inner turmoil and the queen of the skies demanding to know where it was that she thought she was going, reminding her that she had not dismissed her. Apprehensive as she may have been about him, she needed him for her purpose: assisting her in her flight from the room and punishing the sons of Hera by showing them just how little import they had to her, that men were but a mere commodity and she could have any she so wished, only gracing them with her presence out of the goodness of her heart.

"Already your assistance this evening has been invaluable, and I hate to need impose on you any further, but I fear I must. Would you be so kind as to escort me to Cyprus, my lord?" she purred, running gentle fingers over his shoulder and trailing them down his arm—taking great care to linger on his flexed bicep, thinking how predictable menfolk were, needing only a little stroking of their fragile egos—and curving them into the crook of his elbow as she expectantly took her place at his side without even receiving an answer from him.

"I assure you, my lady, the pleasure is all mine," he replied graciously, following her lead and choosing also to ignore Hera's blatant disapproval of their actions. (As a king of one realm, you should have propriety enough not to steal Hephaestus' wife away before his very eyes, she reproached him telepathically. For that matter you should have the decency not interfere in his union at all. Already you mock me by dishonoring your own vows. Am I not owed as compensation one marriage at the very least, within the high court, where there is complete fidelity?) "Forgive me if I sound too forward," he continued smoothly over the nagging voice inside his mind, "but you shall need to stand closer to me, for my method of transport is far different than what you are accustomed."

I've no sympathy for Hephaestus, he explained to Hera, for had he not wished for other men to admire his wife, he would have known better than to bring her here, unclothed, where all would see her. I have seen her beauty in full and I want her. Consider my actions a service to the throne, sister dear, removing the temptation from your husband. One of us will be taking the Goddess of Love to our bed this evening, and I rather think that you would prefer it be myself as opposed to him.

Though she may have presided over the domain of marriage, his youngest sister could not begin to understand the true nature of that which she ruled over. Marriage was not about forcibly shackling two beings together for the rest of their natural lives, it was about holding one's most favored lover in a higher esteem than all the rest of those that they would take, and returning to that lover's bed when the day was through; by his definition, he had fulfilled his duties to the fullest: Amphitrite he had given a position of power as his queen, and when he tired of his mistresses, he would return without fail to her and she welcomed him in her embrace without question. Hera would simply have to try her hand at turning him into some form of beast—her usual punishment for those who displeased her—for neither the fact that Aphrodite was wedded to a weakling like Hephaestus, nor Ares seeming to think of her as quite his own, would keep him from having her, the loveliest goddess in existence.

Carefully he withdrew his arm from her grasp to slip it around her waist and draw her snugly back against him, all the while looking towards Zeus instead with an expression that markedly contrasted his otherwise perfectly gentlemanly conduct. I outplay you in our little game of conquest, brother. I imagine that you quite regret your decision to devote yourself thoroughly and completely to one woman, for the rest of eternity.

His arm draping with a sickening sense of familiarity around her waist brought a tidal wave of bile to the back of Aphrodite's throat and she barely managed to repress the urge to heave and swat away the offending limb when ordinarily, just for the sake of punishing the sons of Hera, she would have cuddled into him in preparation for the journey. Yet she was not feeling herself and instantly she regretted her impulsiveness as already her plan backfired spectacularly. In a stunning display of 'brilliance', she had just given Poseidon all the invitation he needed to touch her however he so wished (and she knew better to think that he would maintain his polite conduct behind closed doors), succeeded in causing Hephaestus further emotional injury and upset—feeling it as plainly as if it was her own and feeding into her own growing sense of despair—and all for naught! Aside from a marginal tightening in the set of his shoulders, there still was no change in Ares' manner! She had been so certain that his profoundly jealous nature, which she had once found to be so incredibly vexing, would get the better of him and spur him into action, although she was unsure of what course of action it was that she expected him to take, all that mattered was that he somehow was able to prevent the Earth Shaker from claiming her, and never after ignored her again.

Damn you, Ares, she shouted out in his mind, surprised that at least one aspect of her power was still properly functioning (and what a phenomenal help it was to her) the tone of her unspoken words something raw and desperate, not sounding even remotely like her usual self. Look at me!

Her feet itched to carry her to him, whether it be to slap him again, or shake him, and order him to return to his usual overbearing and possessive ways…because at least then, he acted as if he cared for her…except there was also a very real danger that she would fall at his feet and rid herself of what very little remained of her dignity by tearfully begging to be acknowledged. Of course, there was too the sea king entrapping her (the second—or by now was it third?—to do so today, adding wood to the fire of her increasing resentment of all males, and she decided when her strength returned to her, she would curse them as a whole: not a single one would be capable of achieving an erect cock, essentially rendered impotent despite their very best efforts to remedy this, for so long as she could maintain it) to take into consideration—and even if the distance between herself and the war god did not feel as if they were miles apart (no more than a few strides separated them really), he certainly would not have let her escape him.

Almost as though her newest captor was able to read her thoughts as she practically had his, his grip tightened minutely and he then took it upon himself to teleport them away to their next destination—true to word, his method of transport being far different than from what she had grown accustomed. Whereas when a god would transition from their solid shape into smoke, their body would grow lighter and they would feel within them a pull towards the sky, the accompanying sensation of floating up and gently away—with this, there was none of it. Aphrodite found her limbs growing leaden, something inside of her dragging her down towards the ground, and fearful how she might respond to such a radical change in form in her weakened state, she unthinkingly wrapped herself around the sea king. Following the unnerving alteration to her physical state, came a slap of water meeting stone—the marble floor—and she was whisked away into the void that existed between worlds alongside him, not to see Olympus, or the God of War for that matter, for another century.

---

"Insufferable bastard," muttered Zeus under his breath as he glowered at the patch of damp flooring where candlelight danced atop the puddles left and moments ago his brother had been standing. "For his insolence he will too be punished." Now, what the crime of Poseidon was exactly was still to be determined, either taunting him with a woman who would join the elder god in his bed when she was otherwise unattainable to him—much like if they were children and the sea king was waving before him a most prized treat—or for his inconsideration of Hera, dematerializing in the midst of her council, but either way, his intense concentration had been broken by the gloating and subsequent disappearance of a deity who should have known better than to do either, and Ares strained ferociously against loosened invisible bindings that had served to keep him silent and out from under foot.

"What a mighty hand you wield when disciplining her!" he spat, all but frothing at the mouth like an illness-stricken dog as he continued to twist and jerk his neck and shoulders, about all that he was capable of moving, in protest to the restraints. How he hated this feeling of powerlessness! When the net disappeared around them, admittedly his first impulse had been cutting down Hephaestus, only after thinking of Aphrodite, who appeared so weakened that she was incapable of even standing without aid, and he could not go to her, protect her. He could say nothing to deflect Hera's wrath when verbally she eviscerated his lover, the words that would lead her to engage him instead there, but lodged in his throat. Worst of all, being entrapped in his own body had prevented him from putting a stop to his uncle stealing her away, even though it had been she who entreated him for his services, done purposely to torment him.

Having to watch the Goddess of Love, the absolutely maddening woman that nevertheless meant far more to him than he initially realized, depart for Cyprus with the sea king as her escort enraged him to no end. It was the incident at the gala all over again, when she had chosen another god—in that instance it had been Hephaestus—over himself, and jealousy burned like a brand overtop his heart, the blade of rejection cutting him just below his ribcage, anger making it almost impossible to put order his thoughts. Blood. He wanted blood, to spill every drop of his familiars', make it pour down from the sky and soak the earth instead of rain. He wanted to carve out Poseidon's still-beating heart from his chest and crush the sinewy organ to a pulp in his fist when he slipped his arm around Aphrodite's waist, Hephaestus' too for acting as a passive spectator: damn him, he was not bound and could have intervened, kept the pair from leaving, but instead that weak-willed waste of immortal flesh all but gave her his blessing to seek fulfilment elsewhere!

"Standing idly by and allowing her to leave on the arm of another man—truly you have struck fear into her heart and inspired future obedience…" Somehow the master smith very much doubted that the war god's furious indignation was on his behalf. "If it was a faithful marriage you sought to create when pairing her off, Mother, you should have given her to me." Back again he turned to his brother, teeth bared. "Perhaps you only have the capability of inflicting punishment upon a lesser being than yourself and that is why you did not act," he added spitefully, eluding to the minor god who was of such little importance that his name could not be recalled, memorable only because it had been he who had earlier harassed Aphrodite so greatly that they both hastened to her defense. That was a mistake he would not be making again…why make a fool of himself trying to protect a goddess who was so willing to replace him, and for that matter, so quick to abandon him to face by his lonesome the consequences of their joint actions?

"Let it not be forgotten that you ended up in my net," answered Hephaestus with no inflection in his tone. Tired to the bone, aching all over, knowing now that his wife despised him (mayhap that had been why he had allowed her to leave for Cyprus with Poseidon, his form of penance for hurting her, and already he had watched her take for herself the worst imaginable lover and might therefore have been more desensitized than he thought himself to be), he just wanted the entire ordeal to be through so that he could commence his exile and not need emerge from his forge for fifty years to come.

Once, twice, the war god opened his mouth only to close it again when no appropriate retort came to his mind, and, giving an inhuman growl and another violent tug of his shoulders, this time freeing up his entire upper torso, he rounded instead on Zeus, who ultimately had been the greatest source of his grievances by shackling him, even now observing him with the same cruel smirk as his own as he fought against his unseen restraints, vowing, "If you ever bind me again, Zeus, I will make Cronos' bloody seizure of Ouranos' throne look as if it was a merciful deed!"

Far from being properly intimidated, his sire's eyes flashed like the storming sky outside and, as a result, he pitched forward into a one-kneed bow with a deafening clang of metal (the greave on his one leg) meeting stone, his eyes downcast and his head lowered reverentially, painfully, exposing the tender nape of his neck to a known predator. Moments after, Hephaestus dropped like a stone alongside his brother, replicating his forcibly subservient pose.

"You think yourself capable of singlehandedly rearranging the heavens, do you?" The king of the skies gave a harsh, humorless bark of laughter. "You are weak!" He brought his fist down on the armrest of his throne, cracking it from the blow. "Worthless! Both of you. Long before I had lived even a half century, I was engaged in battle with the Titans, every day a fight just to see the sun rise again, whereas you each enjoy an existence so pampered that your greatest grievance is failing to keep a faithless woman out of your brother's bed. To reiterate the sentiments of your own mother…" His eyes flicked to Hera, who looked perfectly composed save for pointedly avoiding meeting his gaze. "…it is an abomination that two such abysmally inadequate gods have somehow managed to find themselves in positions of power and prestige. An inspired idea you had, my dear, to strip them temporarily of their posts, and I myself could think of no more fitting substitutions to stand in," he ventured in a quite different-sounding appeal to his queen, though even still she ignored him in favor of staring contemptuously down at their sons, her shoulders tensed and mouth tight.

Exceedingly difficult it was for Hera to carry the burden of knowing that she had borne him the most disappointing of his many, many offspring—useless sons and unremarkable daughters—and she wondered deep down if her inability to produce prideworthy heirs had started his search for other 'vessels' to carry his seed. (After all, his first known act of infidelity had resulted in bastards—Artemis and Apollo—that far surpassed her elder son and firstborn daughter, perhaps not Ares in terms of their strength and ability but certainly in terms of popularity amongst their worshippers and importance within the pantheon.) Now, mere hours after pledging himself to her anew, he eyed Aphrodite with that same carnal intent, and she could not bring herself to speak to him.

A dull ache thrummed in the sky king's chest; he could always produce some sort of reaction from his wife, even if it was not necessarily a positive one, and it deeply troubled him that this time he had not succeeded. The hurt he felt initially at her refusal to acknowledge him turned quickly into anger that was channeled then unto the younger gods kneeling before him. Had they the capacity to master their base instincts, none of them would be in the predicament they were now, and Hera would not question his ability to honor his word.

Feeling the outpouring of his sire's ire, the God of War's strongly-honed survival instincts prevailed over the imposed will of a higher power, and his head whipped up sharply like a hound that had scented a rabbit. It was in the loathing that burned unrestrained in the golden irises glaring up at him that Zeus found the inspiration in which to quench the bloodthirstiness brought on by his wounded ego. Save for once, neither of his legitimate sons had ever faced each other in a combative arena and he was certain that it would be a spectacle to behold—and, better still, one of the two, and he cared not which, would unquestionably incapacitate his brother in the process. Ichor would be spilled and he would be sated.

"With far more deserving candidates at the ready to usurp your seats at council, I would say that if ever there was a time to prove your value, it would be now," he advised his sons, his tone low, dark, and dripping with a danger recognized by both (except then the war god gave a feral grin in understanding that rivaled his laughter shaking his frame in its horridness, the sound of armored soldiers clashing, of their bones breaking, bodies falling and their dying screams)—and Hera for that matter.

Unable to stop herself, she turned to Zeus to protest; while she may have despised her offspring and wished that they could somehow fade out of existence and memory, she could not condone her husband's approach to handling them, watching for sport as they destroyed each other. (Throwing prisoners of war, errant slaves, and the like into a colosseum to face off in a duel to the death was a practice common for more barbaric peoples, just the sort of savages who might give her second-born a place of honor amongst whatever vile deities they worshipped, for he was only too agreeable. "Disembowel a cripple and earn reentry into the pantheon? Done."). But before she could give breath to a single word, he had already freed them of the chains that were an extension of his will.

Just like earlier, Ares was on his feet with a swiftness that Hephaestus had no hope of matching, especially because his feeble knees had locked into place, essentially keeping him in a bow before his would-be executioner. Then came a searing pain, a flash of lights bursting in his field of vision. The unmistakable crunch of his nose breaking as he was struck with either a massive fist or the hilt of a sword. He was sent sprawling from a powerful kick to his chest; he choked on and coughed out a spray of blood as he tried inch backwards and away from the threat. His watering eyes allowed him only to see the hazy form of his attacker as he loomed over him, laughing still, but he could feel too clearly the sharp point pushed to his throat, poised to slice him from ear-to-ear.

So overconfident, so dependent upon his weaponry was his older brother; it would have been in the war god's own best interest to try killing him with his own two hands.

To the astonishment of his familiars, the blade exploded, at his command, like an overripe berry, sending molten metal flying everywhere. The scalding, liquified bronze was as harmless to the master smith as cool spring water, and, mindful of his broken nose, he carefully wiped it away to survey the room. Zeus, he saw, had erected a bubble-like barrier of hot-white energy around himself and Hera, and was also half-laying across the armrests of their thrones to shield her should the protective projection have failed him. Both looked stunned at this new development, but otherwise unhurt. Ares, however, was unprepared and positively drenched, giving a roar of pain that could be heard throughout the heavens. He blindly staggered backwards, pawing at the already-blistering skin on his face and neck—his hands too were welted and inflamed—and whimpering as would a wounded animal, before tripping over his own feet, and practically tumbling into the void.

Cautiously, Zeus lowered his shield and himself back down onto the cushion on his throne and quizzically regarded the younger god. "Not such a waste after all," he remarked, thoughtfully stroking his silvery blonde beard, although there remained a sadistic gleam in eyes. "In fifty years' time, feel free to reclaim your throne." Considering the glare that Hephaestus gave him as he stood, looking a fright with his own beard spotted with blood, face badly bruised, and nose angled more crookedly than usually it was, he realized that he just might have overestimated his should-be heir's abilities and grossly underestimated those of his third-born by Hera. Except there again, he proved himself to be nothing more than an ill-mannered child when he spat at his feet in response before disappearing to a destination unknown.

"Never can it be said that it has not been an eventful thousand years of marriage," the sky king quipped with aplomb, turning hopefully towards his wife, whose hostile expression mirrored that of their sons'…or was it the opposite way around? Either way, he felt as if he was being stared down by a chimera.

"I've no interest in your pleasantries," snapped Hera, making his winning smile falter and worry crease his brow. "You disgust me."

"Come now, my dear, you detest them every bit as much as I…"

He thought her peeved because he had turned her offspring loose upon each other and encouraged them to clash like cocks in a fighting ring, especially when the thought of doing the same to any of his glorified bastards would not even have crossed his mind? He imagined her to be resentful because he treated the children of his mistresses infinitely better than hers…theirs…? Well, yes, actually, that was one of many reasons she was so cross with him, but overall a mere drop of water in the ocean of his other offenses.

"From whom do you think it was that they learned their abhorrent ways?"

Hephaestus' upbringing in the mortal realm had spared him from becoming his father's son (although he had not escaped totally unscathed—around the time of his conception and up through his birth, Zeus appeared to have been on a mission to take as many lovers as feasibly possible, and by her hypothesis, their marital strife coupled with her emotional turmoil could easily have led to his disfigurement) and she was grateful for it because her second-born possessed every last one of her husband's most deplorable traits, if not to an intensified degree. An addiction to power and with it a willingness to shamelessly exploit those beneath him. A craving for conquest and a compulsion to seek it. A relentless hunger for flesh, ideally in the form of a beautiful maiden lying beneath him. Perhaps though in that arena he surpassed the war god, who, given the choice, would unhesitatingly select killing a man over bedding a woman…save for Aphrodite it would seem. Aphrodite, that harlot who had her husband positively salivating as he unabashedly admired her fair form.

"You showed me your true character the night that you came to me guised as a weather-beaten cuckoo bird," added the queen of the heavens in a cutting voice, made all the sharper with envy of the younger goddess.

That had been the night her innocence was lost, and the decision had been taken from her as had her maidenhood. (For him, the first man she had ever loved, and was certain that she would ever love, hence her scorning of all other suitors, she would have surrendered herself, had he not already been married to the Titaness Metis, who had been among their most crucial allies during the war with Cronus and his familiars.) And yet, that did not change the fact that she was the half-wit who had wedded him when all was said and done (her rival curiously enough disappearing with nary a trace), he who had single-handedly caused every tragedy to ever befall her. Before she had quite realized what it was that she was doing, her good sense lost to her ire, she had snatched up the pendant of her necklace, his extravagant anniversary gift to her, and gave it a hard tug, breaking the fragile chain it hung from and slamming it down on the armrest of his throne as she stood.

Out shot Zeus' hand, his long, strong fingers closing around her wrist with a firmness meant to remind her of his authority and yet also with a gentleness that was reminiscent of his earlier caresses that morning. "Hera," he pleaded, eyes resembling the sky just before a light rain, the way they did always when he was troubled, fingertips softly stroking the smooth skin, "I love you. I have loved you from first sight onward and forever after. And one day should we meet death, I will find you in the next life and fall in love with you again," he pledged with an abridged version of his half of their vows, as had he at their wedding, as had he before the Fates hours ago.

"Remarkable: you can so easily recollect such trivial words spoken a thousand years prior, but never the fact that you are married—at least not until after your latest whore has slipped from your bed and stolen away. After an evening in Aphrodite's embrace, you will not even remember my name. If you so desire, go to her when our brother has had his fill."

At that, the queen of the heavens wrenched free her arm from his grasp; rendered mute by her dismissive statement, her shocked husband permitted this. He watched helplessly as, with her head held high with her mastered cold regality, she lifted her skirts and gracefully descended the stairs of the dais atop which their thrones sat, vanishing when she reached the bottom. He had felled Typhon, the deadliest monster the world had ever known, conquered Cronus, the tyrant who had swallowed five of his own children, and having to look on as his wife forsook him was more difficult to endure than either. Only after her disappearance was he able to shake his numb stupor.

Giving a wordless roar of raw, tumultuous emotion, he immediately conjured a thunderbolt and arced his arm, hurling it up at the main chandelier, which spanned a good quarter-length of the mosaiced ceiling—and subsequently exploded in a shower of golden dust and rained down along with bits of broken candle, although already he had turned his sights to one of the wine-laden fountains. That toppled in a sorry heap when the second thunderbolt collided with it, crashing to the ground, the drink it offered running red across the floor like the blood of a slain mortal. Several more would be resigned to a similar fate. Outside, the storm raged on, the wind howling, thunder all but shaking the foundation of his great palace, lightning ripping open the sky, rain beating relentlessly down on the earth while mortals cowered in their dwellings, certain that their end was nigh.

Feeling absolutely no better from his outburst, Zeus dropped back into his throne, pinching the bridge of his nose and bringing his fist down, a resigned, dull blow, on the chipped armrest, searing a portion of it cleanly off, for still his hand was aglow with hot-white energy. The clunk of the stone hitting the smooth marble dais, punctuated by a fainter clink of something far lighter, caused him to raise his head again.

Hera's necklace.

With the utmost care, he leaned forward and picked it up, before sitting back, his elbow on his leg and his chin propped on his fist, and turning the pendant this way and that in mournful contemplation. He would not have, in that moment, desired Aphrodite should even she have appeared before him now, between his legs, wearing nothing but a seductive smile. If he turned it one way, the bauble looked more blue than green, and the opposite was true the opposite way—as his wife's eyes were prone to do. She had the most beautiful eyes (he had not seen the colors of the peacock glow within them until well into their war with their father, the sight leaving him spellbound and in some mild peril, for it occurred whilst they were in the midst of combat): the first time that he had ever looked into them (asking whisking them all away to the safety of his birthplace), they were wide and filled with awe as she too beheld him, and time itself seemed to slow to a crawl and he swore to himself, that when the war was through, he would have this bright-eyed goddess for his queen when he reclaimed the heavens.

Then her face split into a dazzling grin and with a laugh—she had used to laugh then, the sound sweeter than any birdsong—as she properly saw their elder siblings when never had she before, she launched herself into in the arms of the wary-looking, dark-haired god and goddess whom he would come to know later as Hades and Hestia, and was joined in a joyous tangle of limbs as Poseidon and Demeter likewise collided with them. He had stood somberly by, feeling somewhat concerned (this scraggly bunch was to be his army against the Titans?) and slightly self-conscious, watching the gleeful reunion, before he too was tugged by Hera into the many-armed embrace, welcomed into the family as their long-lost brother. When the ecstasy accompanying their freedom ebbed away, reality cruelly reminded them of the precariousness of their situation and initially they all had looked instinctively to Hades for guidance and reassurance, save for his intended wife, who slipped her arm into his, and accepted him as their leader without a moment's hesitation.

There she remained at his side for the entirety of the ten-year Titanomachy. There she remained loyally as a confidant even as he cut her heart to shreds by taking Metis as his wife, bound by duty. Thereafter some unforeseen circumstances about a prophecy marking his would-be ruination, which he put to rest, she met him at the altar as his wife and they enjoyed a wonderous, passionate three hundred years of married bliss. And then…everything went awry, and for the endless life of him, he could not figure out why. (Of course, he knew that the fault had been his and his alone, he was neither ignorant nor arrogant enough to think otherwise, but his own actions mystified him. Sneaking out of his palace, betraying the trust of his life-mate, so that he could indulge in a romp with some nameless nymph was akin to throwing away a diamond and picking up a rock—and still he did it, almost compulsively).

For hours after, he would remain in the desecrated ballroom that smelled oppressively of cloying wine and grew progressively darker as one by one the candles in the surviving chandeliers died down, clutching Hera's pendant to his heart, head bowed, and lost to his gloomy thoughts.

He would not be the only god wondering that eve how things had gone so terribly wrong between himself and the woman he loved.

Author's Note, Pt. 2: Wow, this got surprisingly Zeus-Hera-centric, didn't it? I love them together, they're just so dysfunctional, but they feed off each other's strengths and weaknesses, although not always in a good way. I also had a bunch of fun writing Poseidon, he's another one who just wrote himself. In the original version of events, Poseidon basically bribes Hephaestus into letting Aphrodite and Ares out of the net by telling him that he will pay an adulterer's fine on Ares' behalf, which just...wasn't as much fun as having him schmooze and bully his nephews. And how about that fight between Hephaestus and Ares? Initially I was torn about how it should go because in canon mythology, Ares is mostly all talk and tends to run away when things get to be on the painful side, but a brainstorming session with the fabulous addine995 helped me to decide on the final version, which I think did them both justice.

Wish me luck as I push through the last couple of weeks of the holiday season! I hope everyone has a happy holiday and a safe new year.

Until next time.

-Impersonating Sugar