Dance With the Devil

Zephyros

With promises to talk again, Iris wishes him well and makes her way to look in on Hera. Zephyros wanders back into the pantheon courtyard, the leaves rustling overhead, the air cooling. The granite paths gleam white in the darkening garden, all the shrubs, trees, and statuary bathed in shadow. He's surprised he hasn't been tracked down by now, though Iris's rainbow wards always had been strong. He really should try to find out where he's supposed to report for duty, to find out how many messages and deliveries are waiting for him. Instead, he drifts over to the poplar he'd stood beneath earlier and fades from view, putting it off.

The severity in Dionysus's voice, his manner, strikes a deeper dread in Zephyros's heart than the idea of Zeus finally cracking. Zeus, he thinks to himself, picturing the young god that used to dance in his warm breezes. What has become of you? How much has the stress and fear, the bitterness and anger consumed who you once were? How much of that god is left?

He doubts anybody has an answer to that question. Zeus himself probably doesn't even know.

"For the last time, I cannot help him. He is an Olympian god for Zeus's sake, it's not like he's dying."

That voice. Zephyros's ears perk. He tilts his head.

"You!" Another voice spits, a mix between a disbelieving shriek and a hiss of deepest loathing. "You are the wisdom goddess, are you not? You could talk sense into him, reason with him. I don't know, incapacitate him if necessary to buy us all time to decide how to proceed."

Athena, for that is surely the owner of the first voice, snarls back at the other goddess, and Zephyros can finally make out their profiles. They seem to have been trying to conceal themselves, the same as he has done, and their anger breaks their concentration. The second voice is one he knows well, the goddess Aphrodite.

"Don't you dare. Do you recall the last time Zeus was incapacitated? … Oh right … You don't. You were too busy fumbling around with that beef-headed oaf to bother taking a stand. And then when judgment came down on the rest of us, you batted your eyelashes and admired your own reflection."

"You are a cold woman, Athena. Heartless." Aphrodite draws out the 'ss' sound like a snake hissing. "He is your brother. Your father istorturing him. You claim to excel in battle strategy. What would you do to rescue a prisoner of war? Oh, you wouldn't if that meant you might get a boo-boo. Admit it, Athena. Deep down you are a coward!"

Zephyros can't help it. He'd spent so many years defending Aphrodite, aligning his loyalty to her, it's become a reflex. He swoops into the thick of their argument, blowing Athena's shield, Aegis, off her arm when she lifts it to intimidate the mother of his former master. It crashes to the granite pathway with a loud clatter, ringing faintly even after it stills.

Zephyros is aware he's not a match for either goddess. As god of the West Wind, he's generally seen as a pushover, and has identified as a 'minor' god for so long he wears the title with pride. But with Zeus not quite holding onto his sanity, it's probably best to interrupt a war from breaking out between the goddesses of logic and emotion.

He lands a dozen paces away from them before taking form, his hand resting on his sword hilt, though he has no intention of drawing it. The goddesses glare at him, their argument with each other suspended and a temporary truce forming as they face him down as an intruder.

He figures that's better than what might have occurred. He decides to play dumb. Acting as though he isn't a threat, nor capable of becoming one, has kept him out of danger many, many times in the past.

"Hey there," he says, lifting his hand from his sword hilt and waving at them. "Sorry to interrupt, but with the dark … I heard voices. I've been looking for ages and there just doesn't seem to be many people around."

Athena huffs an irritated breath, but Zephyros can see the fight draining from her, the tension leaving her shoulders. Aphrodite on the other hand, is going to be tricky. She's not great about keeping secrets that aren't her own, and she is, other than Iris, the only person aware of his marriage to Apollo.

"What business do you have on Olympus?" Athena demands. Her Aegis shimmers and disappears from the granite path.

He lifts his eyebrows and rubs the back of his neck, pretending embarrassment. "I'm supposed to fill in as messenger for the gods. I got a little sidetracked and now there doesn't seem to be anybody around to show me the ropes."

Aphrodite remains strangely quiet, and Zephyros glances at where she absently fiddles with a fold in her gown as if unaware she's doing it. "Well," she says, then glances at a point beyond the spring. "I don't have any say in the goings on around here. For all the talk of marriage, professions about fidelity, and family blah blah blah, love isn't really welcome here."

She strides across the courtyard, not acknowledging Athena, but giving Zephyros a small wink as she passes, more gliding than the angry stalking she seemed to be going for. He watches her disappear into the shadowy night, his lips twitching. He thinks he can trust her not to reveal him, but more than that, he successfully prevented the fight from escalating.

Athena clears her throat, and Zephyros straightens his posture.

"Come on, Zephyr," she says, as if having to deal with him was a nuisance. "I think you're in the room next to Ganymede. He'll walk you through the assignment when he turns in for the night."

The room that will be Zephyros's home for the duration of his appointment is about the size of a closet. It feels like a cage. The bed takes up more than a quarter of the space, a single-sized mattress on a simple wooden frame, wedged between two narrow, yellow walls, and pressed against the wall opposite the door. A thick blue curtain wafts against the wall to his right and when he pulls it back, there are bars on the window. He returns his wings to their tattoo form, eyes narrowed, and waves his hand over the bars. They dissolve into mist to his relief, and after tearing the curtain down and allowing the sweet smelling air to dispel the stale air, he breathes easier.

The state of Olympus is utter madness. He's expected to do the job of Hermes, and yet a closet is considered sufficient quarters? He is well on to being a full day late reporting to Zeus, and yet there's no rush to catch up on outside communications? Hades sake, even the pantheon courtyard has been almost empty of other gods.

It's been years since he'd visited Olympus, around seventy or so, he thinks as he rubs his temples. Then, the palace, the courtyard, the streets and markets had bustled with activity. Nymphs, demigods, gods, godlings of all types populated the mountain, making it a regular center of commerce. And now, nothing makes sense and he worries the atmosphere is already getting to him.

He sits on the bed, cross-legged, his back propped against the back wall, his strangest conversation yet spinning through his mind. Athena had escorted him to Zeus's palace, through long corridors with high domed ceilings, every step echoing off the stone masonry, and reminding him of the corridors in Hades's palace. But even that dark structure, tucked away in the land of the dead, was more full of life than this place.

Perhaps Zeus had scared all the other gods off?

He'd followed Athena to a temple at the far side of the palace and then up a long series of staircases. Apparently Ganymede lives squirrelled away where he won't irritate Hera. That is what Athena had said when he'd asked why they were climbing so high. But barred windows? And this room. He takes a closer look at the curtain rod over the window, realizing at last it isn't a curtain rod at all, but a rod for clothing hangers. If Ganymede is treated as though he's the dirty laundry in Zeus's closet, then Zephyros is being shown that he is worth even less, shoved into the closet's closet.

Still, Zephyros finds it hard to work up much agitation. He's used to a life of service, used to being secreted away, denied the pleasures other gods enjoy and expected to be grateful for what he is granted. He wonders what Apollo would say about these conditions. Apollo himself had been knocked down a few tiers on the ladder of worthiness. In his present state he'd probably advise Zephyros to just get through the appointment, to enjoy his freedom to fly and stretch his wings on deliveries, and then promise that things will be better when his term of service is finished. But when that will be hasn't been established. Nothing has been established.

Athena's words too. He's still not sure he can wrap his mind around them. When they'd reached the landing before the final leg of staircases, she'd held out her arm to stop him from continuing.

"Wait," she'd said. He'd stopped and waited, watching her stormy grey eyes – the same color as Zeus possessed – and they looked fearful. "I noticed your strategy. In the courtyard. Not at first, but as we climbed the stairs just now it became clear. It was efficient, effective. Wise even. I've seen you in recent years, more frequently than I expected to."

Zephyros shrugged. "I carry your demigod children to their mortal parents. Hera insists it be my duty as the gentlest wind. I don't mind."

"No, it's more than that." Athena worried her lower lip as if hesitating whether to risk trusting him with some dark secret. "In Nevada, the place where time stands still. You used to frequent it."

Zephyros's cheeks had flushed hot, but he hadn't denied it. "Well, as a servant of Eros … I was never allowed time to …" he hesitated "…to unwind? To connect? The Lotus Casino does need occasional replenishing and Eros never minded me volunteering for the job."

"You liked it there." Athena didn't phrase it as a question.

Zephyros hadn't caught any judgment or even surprise from her at the idea. But in truth, most gods would judge him. For gods, a place where time stands still is like being put out to pasture. It's a place some gods go to fade, to leave the mortal world without ever realizing they had been forgotten. An easy death. A painless one.

"I'm not suicidal," Zephyros had told her. He wanted to make that point perfectly clear. Athena didn't even raise her eyebrows. She'd simply nodded for him to continue. He sighed. "It's just that, not being allowed the freedom to find love, to live according to my own whims, sort of set me on the fringes even more than my status as a minor god. The residents of the casino … I could relate to them, you know? Like, better than I could with my own brethren." He paused a moment, her eyes still watching him closely, almost like they belonged to a predator. "I'm not ashamed. I've never questioned my punishment. It was deserved. I'd committed a horrible crime, and I was justly punished for it. The small pleasures I indulge in – taking some time away, never more than a few hours inside, a week outside, tops – it didn't hurt anybody. Actually, it helped me to keep my sanity, to recharge my batteries I guess they'd say today."

Athena nodded again. "I understand." Then she'd turned and led him up the final staircase, the conversation finished. "Ganymede should be back eventually. He'll knock on your door." And that had been it.

Zephyros taps his fingers restlessly on his knees. He could probably do with another few hours in the Lotus Casino right now, but if things on Olympus do pick up and it turns out he'll be playing catch up with a mountain of correspondence, it's not very likely.

Bright blue eyes flash across his memory, sun-bleached blond hair, a youthful giggle. Demigod children. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, his heart aching. When he sees Apollo again, they need to have a serious talk about what they both consider vital. Zephyros trusts Apollo does see far enough ahead to make intelligent decisions, but he sometimes doesn't see near enough to the present to notice what he loses by looking so far ahead. All the time, the potential, lost.

A loud thump sounds as something hits the wall opposite the window, and Zephyros doesn't want to wait any longer, especially cooped up like a bird in a cage. The very idea that image inspires makes his tattooed feathers ruffle, and then he frowns at how apt the insult actually is. Must he temper his powers according to another god's instruction? He tells himself that he isn't yet employed as a messenger to Zeus, not having received any details or formal greeting.

If the thump hitting the wall was Ganymede returning for the night, Zephyros decides not to wait for a knock on the door and risk the young wine steward falling asleep first, he'll go to meet him on his own terms. Zephyros stands, then turns sideways so he can stretch his wings before transforming into wind.

It's easy, breezing out the open window, building up stamina and resolve with a few short bursts of free flying. He twists. The tower windows to the next room are narrow and barred, but moving through them as a gentle breeze, wafting the gossamer curtains without fanfare is the simplest thing ever. Zephyr prepares to return to his physical body, but catches himself in the nick of time.

Spread over a long dining table in the center of the room is a true feast for the eyes. Ganymede, entirely naked, his arms lifted over his head, his thick brown hair tousled and grown out, framing his face, cushioning his head, and making the pinkness of his cheeks, the redness of his lips that much more tempting.

Zephyros follows his baby fine skin down from his raised chin, along his neck, his bobbing Adam's apple – flushed skin – and further down his chest to his perfectly pebbled nipples, darker red, and shining with either sweat, or oil, or saliva. Zephyros couldn't pull his gaze away from the delight before him if it would save his life.

Further down Ganymede's tight little stomach, his abs flexing with his shuddering breaths, his legs spread apart at the thighs, and Zeus – not the aged king of the gods, wise and discerning with his silver streaked hair and storm-colored beard, but as he once was, his youth restored – his eyes closed in pleasure as he coaxes Ganymede open with his tongue. His beardless face nuzzles as deep between Ganymede's perfect ass cheeks as it can go, his nose surfacing every once and a while to breathe in air and Ganymede's delicious musk. The boy, for he is too perfect to be called a man, is what Zephyros would describe as 'sex on legs'.

But seeing Zeus young again makes Zephryos's heart clench, his soul ache. He drifts slowly, careful to not rustle the curtains or knock over any light trinkets, and settles a short distance from Zeus, studying him.

Zeus's hair is thick and black, unruly and yet perfectly so, his eyebrows dark and full. The deep creases in his forehead that had become a testament to Zeus's wizened, kingly persona don't touch him in this form. Instead, his entire focus is on the young man spread out before him, and as he hums his contentment, his nose pressed into the hinge of Ganymede's thigh, his mouth fastened, Zephyros can feel the vibrations himself, can see the effect they have on Ganymede.

Zephyros is used to watching. He's used to upholding his vow to a master, to remaining chaste for the duration of service, which had been, put simply: forever. And even though he is finally free, a phantom weight, the memory of the shackles of his vow, weighs on him still. While Eros's terms were cruel, that he must serve the god of love and never partake in the pleasures of the same, he never forbade Zephryos from watching. Zephyros has mused a lot over the centuries whether his master actually got off on seeing Zephyros so tormented.

He shakes, not wanting the doubts, the truth, to weigh on him right now. Not when he must remain unseen. Fortunately, Ganymede saves him from his own thoughts, crying out.

"Oh! My Lord. Master!"

Zephyros's attention is caught at the first word, and tethered completely by the last. He gazes down at the spectacular beauty before him, the young man so dedicated to his godly patron that he wears stars in his eyes. His gut churns with pity for the place Ganymede has been set on Olympus. Forever servile, forever barred from the rest of the world, forever under Zeus's every whim, and then, Zeus surprises him.

The king of the gods rises slowly from between Ganymede's spread thighs, pressing soft kisses to the tender skin as he goes, and then meeting Ganymede's desperate gaze. "Please, love," he says, his voice lacking its usual thunder and power, instead sounding almost human, almost fragile. "Not here. Do not use that terrible word for me when we are together."

Ganymede, his eyes still locked fast with Zeus's, pushes himself up on his arms, and Zeus leans in closer, clasping Ganymede's strong young back and pulling him into an embrace. Ganymede nuzzles Zeus's chest with one cheek, his flush less pronounced, and trails his fingers up and down Zeus's sides making Zeus's knees quake.

"Zeus," Ganymede whispers, drawing back, his voice more breath than vibration. "You're back."

Zephyros's mind spins. His dissipated form has always brought him clarity of thought before, the ability to see a bigger picture, but now as thoughts occur and he wants to examine them, to make sense of Zeus's apparent return to his his former charming self, for watching him drink kisses from Ganymede's lips, and then dissolving into lovers' giggles does not fit with reality. Each time Zephyros tries to catch and examine an idea as it occurs, it slips away as if blown by one of his more unruly brother winds.

Wrapping his arms around Ganymede's firm young body, Zeus picks him up and carries him to the bed. King-sized, Zephyros thinks, the bitter taste of envy tainting his wonderment. He shakes himself again, trying to buck the unwelcome emotion, but finds himself once more distracted. A scent, an unfamiliar one, like poison, like venom, seeps into the room, and worse, Zephyros feels it trying to mingle with his form. He darts anxious glances all around him, his heart racing, and finds nothing out of the ordinary. And then, just as quickly as it rose, the scent diffuses, becoming faint.

As his heartrate slows again, Zephyros clings to his thoughts, swaying each portion of his windy body, making sure it is all there, and that it is only himself he feels. His eyes fix on the barred windows, every instinct screaming at him to flee, to escape, but deserting his post has never been in Zephyros's nature. He turns back to check that Zeus and Ganymede are unharmed by whatever the toxic air had borne, and his breath catches.

Watching them, Ganymede's hair shining with health, his face glowing from within and spreading outward as if wearing a halo. And Zeus, his muscles flexing, tensing, relaxing, thrusting his hips and coaxing the sweetest sounds from Ganymede's throat. Zephyros realizes how wrong it is that he witness such a sight. He forces himself to turn away, to focus instead on the designs carved into the walls. If one of his brothers, or his former master, or Zeus himself had been watching him and Apollo consummate their marriage, he'd feel violated. They'd had sex in public, risking being caught many times, but the last coupling had been for them alone. It seems the same between Zeus and Ganymede right now and Zephyros chastises himself for being so blind.

The details of the engraved wall are an easy distraction, a mass of images that, until you start looking at them, don't appear to be more than a series of scribbles. He finds goblets, and pitchers, a youth pouring nectar onto a plate for a seated king, and below that a billow of scattered feathers leading to an eagle. He glances back at the bed where the lovers cling to each other, face to face, their breaths mingling, their eyes lost in each other and warmth spreads throughout his consciousness, tingling on the tips of what would be his fingers, above him trembling where he would make his wings. He flushes, absorbing the pleasure of their climax like a sponge, and can't find it in himself to feel guilt. He's too far gone, overdosed on a positive charge.

He turns away again, giving them privacy, feeling sluggish and lazy, lust drunk. It's a comfortable state. He wonders idly if Ganymede had carved the images into the walls himself. They seem to tell his story. A quick glance over parts of three walls he can see, they are all engraved. How much time alone must Ganymede have spent to make them? How many hours had he been locked away in here by himself, dwelling on his abduction from the mortal world?

The bars in the window appear thicker than before, darker, more cruel. Over the centuries Zephyros himself had sheltered Ganymede several times, listening to his gossip of the latest news on Olympus, discussing his new hobby as an occasional announcer on Hephaestus radio, and generally seeming to be content with his life as a plaything. It was only when Hera flew into a rage that Zeus let him leave Olympus. And the rest of the time, Zephyros frowns. The rest of the time keeps him locked away? How could such blatant abuse be remotely mistaken for love? His stomach sours as the repressed memories of how he had himself abducted Chloris from Elysium struggle to the forefront of his mind.

That had been Eros's influence, he reminds himself, but it doesn't make him feel any better about it. Could it be Eros that is causing the changes in Zeus? Dionysus had inferred Zeus was mad, but having felt the madness of love from Eros's sting firsthand, Zephyros is still unsure. Zeus seems to be sane now, but also not at all the same personality he presents as the King of the gods.

Zephyros perks his ears at the sound of rustling sheets. Perhaps they will fall asleep for the night and when they do, he'll be able to slip through window bars and back into his own room. They start talking, and Zephyros retreats inside his own mind so as not to listen in, his eyes wandering again over the engraved images on the walls without direction until one draws his full focus.

In the very corner, tucked away so as to be hard to spot, there is a series of nightmarish faces. He draws closer, his heart picking up in rhythm as he takes them in one at a time. They all seem to resemble each other, yet each expression is more grotesque than the one before it, and despite his best intentions, Zephyros picks up Zeus and Ganymede's conversation. Their voices sound clearer than they ought to at such a distance, as if they want to be heard.

"Forgive me if I misunderstood, my lord," Ganymede's tone is cold, almost icy.

"How can I explain myself to such a simpleton?" The thunder and barely restrained anger Zeus is famous for is back in his voice. Deeper, more gravelly than it had been. "It isn't so easy a task and I will not be made to be a fool. That you would even suggest such a thing … Do I even know you at all?"

"In-timate-ly," Ganymede replies drily, drawing out the word as if to hammer it home. "I am exhausted. May I be allowed to sleep, sir?" The hurt in Ganymede's voice, the disappointment, the sorrow, touches a raw nerve deep in the core of Zephyros's being. He can't retreat from it, not without severing a piece of his own heart. But he also cannot challenge Zeus. He turns to watch them.

Zeus, dressed once more in his robes, his body restored to his older visage, his hair streaked grey and silver, his beard grey and white, and his eyes cold as steel, and lit with the anger of a brewing storm.

Ganymede hasn't bothered to dress or to cover himself. He sits with his back upright against the headboard, and with the withering glare he throws at Zeus, his fingers twitching at his sides, feet crossed at the ankles, Zephyros reads his temptation to call Zeus out on his shit. Perhaps it is because Ganymede was born a mortal, or perhaps because though he was granted immortality and the equivalent of godhood – counting him worthy as the beloved of Zeus, but not given any dominion of his own – Zephyros can read his thoughts. They buzz in Zephyros's mind as if by radio transmission.

If you would drop your claim to power, you could be yourself.

Zeus, I long for you, and yet all of your promises have been empty.

I live in fear, never knowing which face you will wear when you come to my bed.

I can't leave, for you will never allow it.

It hasn't ever gotten better, if anything, time makes you worse, and I am so very weary, worn so thin.

I do not doubt that I could push too far and you would destroy me in your passion. But I know that afterwards you would destroy yourself and the world along with you, only increasing the strife you leave behind, far worse than the last time.

You are real, and pure, and kind, and funny, and so freaking gay for me that I can't resist loving you. But this power - it destroys everything it touches and it touches us both.

Zephyros's throat constricts. There is too much anguish in Ganymede's mind, too many variables he somehow takes into account whenever Zeus is near him. Such a heavier shackle than Zephyros could ever bear up under. And yet he retains his good nature and his hope. An impossible hope, but it has sustained him for more than three eons.

Zeus doesn't seem to be aware of the messages Ganymede longs for him to pick up. Instead, he swells with the fury of the sky, each passing moment of silence confusing him, driving his anger to greater heights.

The scent of ozone fills the room and Ganymede closes his eyes, sighing. He mumbles under his breath, but unfortunately clearly enough that Zeus does pick it up. "Go ahead and kill me. Will that make you happy?"

The sky outside erupts with thunder from multiple sources, and through the bars on the window Zephyros watches forked bolts of lightning split the night in two, the streak still visible long seconds after it strikes, and Ganymede does not open his eyes. He doesn't react at all, not a single muscle twitching.

Zephyros is tempted to call for Apollo. He doesn't doubt Apollo's ability to answer in an instant, but how much more would that stir up Zeus's wrath? What the hell is causing it even? It seems to come from within Zeus himself – the altered state of Olympus even – the skin crawling sensation of toxic air that had tried to mix with Zephyros's form not more than an hour ago. Dionysus had diagnosed insanity, and with the lack of other gods on Olympus – where there had once been an endless milling of them – Zephyros's suspects he is not far off the mark.

The way Aphrodite had pleaded with Athena, had begged her to find a way to incapacitate Zeus until a solution could be found suddenly seems to Zephyros, like an ideal way to proceed, but Athena had cut it down immediately. Zephyros suspects that if incapacitation was possible, Athena would have already done it. He follows Ganymede's example and closes his eyes, quieting his mind. Shortly after, the walls shake with the force of a heavy slamming door, a powerful ward settling on the lock.

It seems that for now, he and Ganymede won't be going anywhere.